Fate: Zero Eos
by Mr. Sparkles
Summary: A story of the Second Pacific War, and a story of the Fourth Holy Grail War. One man's search for meaning and one man's search for his ideals in the midst of the Britannian invasion of Japan. The prequel to Fate/Nightmare Apatheia. Rated T for some violence.
1. 1500 Years Ago: Mordred

**Author's Preface**

Well, after 2 months and nearly 55,000 words, Fate/Zero Eos is ready to be published. In the fashion of Fate/Zero, I tried to preface the characters by making long prologues-but it turns out that these characters required a lot more fleshing out than I thought, and as it turns out, all 55,000 of these words are of character backstories. Having amassed enough of them, though, I should be able to manage a month's worth of weekly updates. Of course, the progress will slow once I have to write new content (After all, College involves a lot of work, and I'll likely have to stop on normal weeks to prepare for Finals and midterms), but for now, I hope new readers and readers from Fate/Nightmare Apatheia can enjoy this work!

Before this, though, I would like to start off with a few notes.

**1. The footnotes ([1]) are not necessary to the plot. ** You don't have to read them, and I usually explain what I happen to be explaining at the end. It just provides backstory and information for anybody who might be looking deeper into whatever I happen to be saying.

**2.** **This Story will be two-pronged.** As the prequel to Fate/Nightmare Apatheia, this story is aimed at ending at the Status Quo that is the case in F/NA. As such, while there are interactions, there is not one overarching plot, but rather two parallel plots that eventually condense into one plot. As such, I ask for a little patience. It'll take a while, but it'll happen.

**3. Probably should be #1, but this is a Prequel to HeavyValor's Fate/Nightmare Apatheia, another Code Geass - Fate/Stay Night Crossover. ** While it probably could work as a standalone fanfiction, it introduces characters that are present in F/NA and is generally geared to follow the rules of F/NA. While you can read this as its own fanfiction, I would suggest that you read it concurrently with F/NA, which follows Fate/Stay Night's concurrence with Code Geass (FateZero Eos follows Fate/Zero's concurrence with Code Geass)

**4. Some of the dates have been changed. ** To begin with, both HeavyValor and I are kinda iffy about the ATB system, since according to the ATB system all of Code Geass would already have happened in the 1960s by our calendar. Moreover, to allow the Second Pacific War and the Fourth Heaven's Feel (Holy Grail War) To coincide, there is a 7 year gap between F/NA and F/ZE that will be explained later. Please keep this in mind.

**5. Fate/Zero Eos is based on Fate/Zero, the prequel to Fate/Stay Night. **It's not hard to find the original of this in english translation-Baka-Tsuki offers a complete translation, and the second half of the Fate/Zero Anime is airing now. There are parts that I really needed to incorporate in the Prologues with a nearly identical plot to prologues in Fate/Zero, and to those who notice it and to Kinoko Nasu and Urobuchi Gen, I would apologize, but their importance to the story is so vital that I had to maintain them. As such, please do not expect major appearances from Emiya Shirou and co.

**Well, that's about it, so for now, please enjoy Fate/Zero Eos! - Mr. Sparkles**

* * *

><p><strong>-Mordred-<strong>

_"Every man carries the seed of his own death, and you will not be more than a man. _

_You will have everything; you cannot have more…" _

_ -_Mary Stewart, The Hollow Hills

* * *

><p><strong>April 592 A.T.B. [1]<strong>

**Camelon, Modern day Republic of Scotland**

It was a bright day, warm and relatively dry for a Scottish April.

Normally, farmers would have been out, noisily tending to their fields and discussing the latest village gossip.

Today, the only sound that could be heard was the wind that whistled through the uncountable spears and banners of two silent armies.

On one side, the pennants flashed silver and blue, the silver cross on the blue sky.

On the other, the banners glowed in scarlet and gold Dragon of the Pendragons on red background.

Standing in front of their individual banners and surrounded by their retainers, knights stared across the battlefield, trying to spot the banners of former friends and acquaintances.

On the day of battle, there were no grandiose promises or lighthearted banter, no dreams of heroics on either side. There was only a grim somberness.

This was not a simple war between enemies—it was also a war between friends, many of whom had fought with each other for years.

None of the knights dreamed that they could resolve this battle through negotiation. They were career military men, and once the horns of battle blew, they knew they, like everyone else, would fight for their lives, killing all in their way.

And yet they mourned.

For every man slain in this war would be a brother.

This was not a noble battle between nations, but a kinslaying within a nation.

The lines of silver and blue parted as a figured rode out from a central tent, guarded by four knights in silver armor and cloaks of blue-and-white.

Each knight wore a sword by their side and held a lance in their hands, each with a thin pennant of blue and silver attached, each with a different design.

Only some of the German Mercenaries did not recognize the uniforms and armor of the Knights of the Round Table.

And, in their center, the diminutive figure that rode out in armor of Blue and Silver could only be King Arthur Pendragon himself.

Murmurs of respect rose on both sides of the battlefield—some grudgingly, other devoutly, but all sincerely.

After all, this was the boy king who had led them for decades.

And here he was, not a day older from the day that, scorned by his brother, he drew the Sword from the Stone.

An Italian Mercenary in the ranks of the red and gold voiced the opinion of many of the other non-britons when he said, "he's smaller than I imagined."

They would never say it aloud, but even some of the Britons agreed. Every time he rode to the front, many a knight doubted if this young boy, who had not even grown facial hair, had truly led Britain.

Yet even now, an air of regal kingship emanated from his simple but functional iron armor.

And yet, whispered some of the older knights in the ranks of blue and silver, was not King Arthur weaker than ever?

Where was Sir Kay, that rash but devoted foster brother who had always been on the King's side? Dead, his body mangled in battle in a faraway land.

Where was Sir Lancelot, the Black Knight and the mightiest of Arthur's knights? In exile, forever estranged from his lord.

Where was Sir Gawain, the White Knight, and the only man who was Lancelot's equal? Dying, having been struck in an old wound dealt by Sir Lancelot, when the Queen Guinevere's betrayal turned these dire friends into enemies.

Of the four knights that guarded the King (Sir Lucan, Sir Sagramore, Sir Bedivere and Sir Percival), only Sirs Bedivere and Percival had been with the King during his greatest adventures, and only Sir Bedivere had been with him from the beginning.

All of Uther Pendragon's old guard and the King's peers were dead, most of them having fallen in the King's 10 years of service.

Yet the king had never cried or shown any grief, not even once. Unchanging and unaging, he went on, to the next battlefield, to the next enemy.

Battle after battle he fought, and man after man fell in his service.

The loss of fathers, sons, brothers and husbands struck family after family.

And gradually, the eternal youth that the King's people praised as vigor, the unemotional pragmatism the people praised as devotion, the efficiency with which he defeated enemies the people praised as singlehearted patriotism changed.

The King's youth was now iron rigidity, unchangeable like the King's features.

The King's lack of emotion was now apathy, the marks of a king so enamored with his nation that he had forgotten the nation's people.

The efficiency of his victories and his willingness to abandon whole villages for the right moment, the perfect battle, was now mercilessness.

And so the hearts of the king's men drew away from their king.

When even his closest associates, his queen and greatest knight fled from him, he found himself completely alone.

And now this lonely king rode out to defend a country that no longer understood him.

"King Arthur Pendragon, rightful ruler of Devon, Logres, Wales and Lothian, requests the presence of usurper Mordred for a parley!" The call, almost womanlike, echoed across the silent field for a moment before the opposing lines split.

On the other side, a company of riders issued. Wearing red cloaks over their plate armor, they stopped fifty meters from King Arthur's riders. From their center came a figure whose face was obscured by a familiar, two-horned mask—the mask of Sir Mordred the Crimson Knight, the most promising of the younger knights. At his side were four knights whose splendor was equal to that of King Arthur's own knights of the round table.

After all, they HAD been knights of the round table. There was Sir Pellias, a commoner-born knight whom Sir Gawain had betrayed in love; Sir Graveth, whose four brothers had died when the King had failed to deliver the siege of their castle; Sir Plenorius, who had matched Sir Lancelot for hours before yielding in combat; and Sir (and king) Melians, who had served King Uther and whose nation had been devastated by foreign invasions.

"Mordred of Britannia, Knight and Defender of the People of Britannia, presents himself," the masked knight called back.

For a moment, the two sides stared at each other, the two groups of bodyguards staring impassively.

Finally, King Arthur began.

"Mordred the Crimson Knight, you have violated the oath you swore on the day I dubbed you as Knight of the Round Table. You have taken up arms against your liege in his time of need. You have fought and killed fellow knights, and you now turn your sword against your sovereign in your lust for power. When I was in France, fighting for this land, you stole my throne and killed my men. This disloyalty should be rewarded with death. What say you in your defense?"

For a moment, Mordred said nothing.

"…It is true," he started finally, "that I am a traitor. But I am a traitor to a man, one man. You, King Arthur, are a traitor to a nation. What you equate to Britannia is you, not Britannia's people. You have brought suffering to countless families, made many wives into widows and children into orphans.

Your crimes are far more heinous than mere betrayal.

For your safety, you allow enemy invaders to trample on our land, betraying those villages and towns that waited in vain for their sovereign.

For victory, you hurl your men into impossible battles while you seize the prestige.

And for what?"

"—For country," the King replied curtly. "What I do is for Britannia. And what about you? You, Mordred, who is pursuing this war for your own personal grievances against me?"

"…personal grievances?" There was no longer simply dignity now in Mordred's voice. There was a distinct note of anger. For a moment, the other knights felt him glower underneath his mask. Slowly, he reached towards his helmet as the other knights let out a collective breath of disbelief. Mordred the Crimson Knight had never removed his helmet in public. Yet here he was, about to remove that helm that many had by now conceded to be Sir Mordred's face. Slowly, he pulled the helmet off.

There was a stir of shock among the knights, but the King remained impassive in the face of the features he had seen once before—in fact, much more than once.

For, underneath, grey-haired but quite recognizable, was the face of King Arthur.

There were a few differences, but this was clearly King Arthur, a little more youthful and yet a little older. The expression on Mordred's face, a livid anger, stood at odds with the King's impassive expression.

"Personal Grievances? Perhaps I have some personal stake in this, King Arthur," Mordred said in a forcibly suppressed voice, "but I was not the man who took the Armies of Britain over the channel in order against a man such as Lancelot. I was not the one started the grudge whom your own foster brother and so many others died for, far away from home. I am not the one who would scorn that which came from his flesh and blood—"

He stopped midrant. On both sides, the knights had long since frozen, their expressions shocked and puzzled, unsure of what was going on. And yet in response to his tirade, King Arthur simply looked at him with his emotionless eyes. Neither forgiving him nor judging him, neither loving him nor hating him.

The same way he would look at a tree—as something that he could never understand or relate to.

For some reason, that angered him more than anything.

"…this parley is over," Mordred managed, his voice constricted as he put his helmet back over his face.

"We will meet again on the battlefield," he said as he turned his horse around.

With his helmet on, none of his knights could have noticed the tears that stained the inside of the helmet.

Nor could they have heard him whisper "father" as he rode back into the waiting ranks of his men.

* * *

><p>He remembered the first time he had seen the King.<p>

That day when the Knights of the Round Table had returned, battered but proud, from their victory over the Germanic Saxon invaders.

On that day, Mordred had been allowed out from his studies in his tower. Escorted by his mother, he had looked down at the golden-haired boy-king, somehow still resplendent while caked in dirt and blood.

That King who had driven back the invaders none could halt yet again.

Mordred loved the king. He loved his quiet dignity, his strength, the way he epitomized the knights that he led. Loyal, unswerving, unerring.

On that day, his mother had patted his head.

"Do you want to be like our king, Mordred?"

On that day, Mordred had nodded happily, hopefully.

"Stay with me, Mordred. Allow me to train you, to raise you. Work hard, focus on your studies, live and grow in time, you will become our king, Mordred.

Nay, you may even surpass him."

From that day on, Mordred threw his everything into his studies. He never shrank before any adversity, never said no to a challenge. He tried to be like the king, the man he idolized.

A knight, his mother said, did not crave recognition by face—he should seek recognition by his works. And so, clad in the anonymous mask that had been made for him, Sir Mordred fought.

For Chivalry.

For Honor.

For Justice.

It was his mother, Arthur's half-sister Morgan Le Fay, who recommended him to the King—but it was utterly unnecessary, for Sir Mordred, the Red Knight, was surely the purest knight save the King Himself.

He would allow no injustice to occur in front of him. He was courteous to all women, many of which became his admirers—though he gently rebuffed their advances, afraid that they would lead him astray from his knightly obligations. He knew that though he was a man of war, his duty was to uphold peace. Many times, he would seek the peaceful resolution where he would lose honor.

Some knights disliked the fact that he would choose a peaceful negotiation over war and deplored his willingness to abandon chivalry and the code of honor for the good of the common people.

But to the commoners, he was a champion, the man who put his pride below the welfare of the people.

Unlike the King, who only returned with the corpses of their family, the Crimson Knight brought peace to the fields.

Yet, gradually, Mordred noticed something. For one, he grew like no other. While his childhood friends remained children, he was an adolescent, a young adult. And there was also the face that looked back at him in the mirror—the face that looked so much like the man he idolized.

Finally, he confronted his mother on his identity.

And that day was the greatest day in his life.

"You are not simply the nephew of the King, Mordred," his mother had said. "You are his son, a homunculus made of his flesh and blood."

Through obtaining the king's seed[2], his mother had created him, an alchemic being whose shorter and more rapid lifespan is compensated with exceptional physical and mental augmentations.

And though the fact that he was a false being scared Mordred, it made him proud. For he was the flesh and blood of the man he idolized, his true son. And given that Queen Guinevere had yet to bear the king a son, Mordred was truly the Heir to the man he loved and respected the most.

He imagined the King would be overjoyed. Here, finally, one of his greatest knights would reveal himself to be his son, and he would become a father. And they would consummate their love be father and son, the greatest heroes Britannia had known, and would ever know.

The next day, he sought the King in private. With impatience, he waited through the meeting of the Knights of the Round Table. He felt proud, elevated above his peers. For whom of them, whether it was Sir Lancelot or Sir Gawain, could claim to be a son of the king himself?

When the meeting was over and the knights had dispersed, it was night. Under the light of the moon, he eagerly removed his helmet in front of his king, his father.

He saw the shock on his father the King's face, the face that would surely turn to joy.

And yet, for all of Mordred's exclamations of joy, the King's expression of shock was replaced by the same serene expression the king always held.

"You…you cannot be my son, nor are you my heir," he had said.

And, at that moment, Mordred staggered backwards, as if the king had thrust a lance through his heart.

All his hopes and dreams, his image of his father, his pride—all of it was shattered by that single sentence.

The King refused to acknowledge him, his true son.

On that day, Sir Mordred had said nothing. He had ridden quietly back to his estate, and he held all his tears until he was back in his bedchambers and alone.

But he felt as if life was no longer worth living.

The radiant reunion he had envisioned had been replaced by cold rejection.

The King he loved had rejected him.

And gradually, his sorrow turned into anger, and then hate.

It was not the King who had rejected him.

It was he who rejected the king.

And, as he thought about it, he saw that the king he had loved and idealized was an illusion.

There was no love in this King's serene smile. There was only contempt, contempt at the fawning pawns that he would sacrifice at a moment's notice to win a battle.

There was no greatness in the King's conquests. With each battle came the bodies, each delivered rotting and surrounding by flies to fathers, mothers, children, siblings, all of whom still chanted "Long Live the King" through their tears.

Queen Guinevere's infidelity confirmed Mordred's fears. Armed with his knowledge of the Queen and Sir Lancelot's treacherous adultery, he brought her before the Knights, enforcing justice.

Yet, King Arthur simply ordered the queen's execution, leaving his favorite knight, Lancelot, unguarded and unpunished. The Black Knight was too powerful and important for the King to harm, it seemed.

And so, unguarded, it was the Black Knight who descended against the Knights of the Round Table at the Queen's Execution, who cleaved the Round Table apart as he separated the heads of Sir Gaheris and Gareth from their shoulders.

And King Arthur, finally driven to action, pursued Lancelot into France. He took the men of Britain to an overseas nation to fight a war motivated simply by a grudge against one man. Each of those who fell died not for their nation, but for King Arthur's grudge. And it was on the fields of France that Sir Mordred realized.

King Arthur was slowly driving Britannia into the ground.

Disillusioned, he returned with many of the knights to Britain when Arthur continued on to Rome.

One day, he walked into the King's Hall in Camelot, empty save for the ragged blue and white banners of the King, deserted in those six months of war.

Year after year, the splendid halls of Camelot grew emptier as knight after knight perished in King Arthur's wars; as farmers were separated from their hoes and fields to fight in the King's wars.

Britannia was on a road to its own destruction.

Mordred could see the starving populace, reduced to begging and servitude once the King inevitably died.

He could see the tears of the children as their fathers were drawn into unwinnable wars against hordes of invaders, of knights slain on the field of battle.

It pained him.

And then Mordred saw a new future, a brighter future.

He saw the King's Hall once more, draped not with blue and white, but with the radiant Red and Gold of his own armor and shield.

He would sit on that throne, a king who would bring peace to Britain and defend it from its foes, regardless of the costs. He saw himself administering a new justice, a kinder, more peaceful justice. He saw Britannia strong, an empire that would fill not simply the Isles, but distant lands and the Continent.

He would advance on Rome like a new Constantine (Author's Edit: Charlemagne wasn't born yet). He would be crowned as the Holy Roman Emperor, the defender of the faith.

He would lead this Holy Empire of Britannia past the Persian Heathens, into the Orient, from Ocean to Ocean, a peaceful land of peace, prosperity and strength.

He would succeed where his father had failed.

It was true that King Arthur's reign was a mistake.

But it was Sir Mordred's wish—nay, duty to fix that mistake.

And so, empowered with his reputation and influence, he started the revolution. Abandoning his old red-and-gold shield, he made a new flag—the old Dragon of Uther Pendragon, superimposed in gold on the red Sky, a new banner for a new Britannia.

He found allies—those who had been wronged by the king, who had lost much in the King's many wars, whose injustices had been ignored for politics.

And finally, he started the revolution.

Many were still loyal to the King—but many followed Mordred as well.

For "with Arthur was none other life but war and strife, and with Sir Mordred was great joy and bliss.[3]"

He and his men had triumphantly marched on Camelot, and it was there that he walked into the halls.

Sir Gawain, the marshal, was no challenge, still weakened from the wound he had suffered in his duel with Sir Lancelot. The old knight stood no chance against the heir to the King.

It was there, in the halls of Camelot, that he drew out Clarent, the Sword of Peace. Where King Arthur brought Excalibur, the Sword of War, with him to his many campaigns, he had left Clarent, the Ceremonial sword used in knighting, in Camelot. The sword made not to smite enemies, but to defend friends. The sword he should have always wielded.

And it was with the sword of peace that Mordred united his men against King Arthur, the man who had killed so many of his own people.

And it was Clarent that Mordred held in his hand now, as he waded into the sea of enemies.

Silent as ever, Mordred swung Clarent downwards, cleaving through the armor of a Knight in Blue and Silver. He felt the plate armor give way as Clarent cleaved though sinew. With a smooth step forwards, he separated the greatsword from the corpse as he charged another knot of knights.

And then, finally, Mordred spotted the large banner of King Arthur, White Cross and Silver Stars on the Blue Sky.

Among the dead and dying, he could spot the King, fearless as ever as he cut down Sir Pellias over Sir Percival's body.

Without another word, he charged towards the King's banner—and then rolled to the side as a halberd slammed down where his head would have been.

"On Guard, traitor," Sir Sagramore said levelly as he calmly twirled the halberd in his hands. Mordred paused. A Byzantine Prince, Sagramore had journeyed to Britain to join Arthur, and he had been one of Mordred's greatest supporters when he was being considered as a Knight of the Round Table. For many years, Mordred had considered him a friend.

Yet Mordred knew that this Sir Sagramore would show him no mercy.

"Sir Sagramore…will you not yield? For Britannia? I don't wish to fight you."

"…Words are useless, Sir Mordred," Sagramore responded. "I wish to fight you."

With a forwards step, Sagramore charged forwards, his halberd swinging upwards in a fierce uppercut that Mordred parried with Clarent. Ignoring Sagramore's attempt to swing back his halberd, Mordred took a step closer with Clarent, inside the reach of the halberd blade. The two clashed again—but with a close center of leverage, Mordred easily parried the shaft of Sagramore's blade. Only the superb craftsmanship of the greatsword prevented it from dulling as it impacted once more with the shaft.

Switching Clarent to one hand, Mordred suddenly stepped closer, punching Sagramore in the face with his gauntlet. Covered in metal, the armored first impacted into Sagramore's face, and he stepped back, blood gushing from his nose. The moment of hesitation was more than sufficient for Mordred, who finished his swing. Sagramore's armor held for a moment, and then bent and then shattered, allowing Clarent's ornamental blade to shear through flesh and armor.

The Byzantine man fell to the ground, defeated.

Yet the battle had not been lost on King Arthur's guard, and Sir Lucan charged forwards to stop him.

They were all in his way, all obstacles between he and the King.

But Mordred didn't care. He would chase after the king no matter what, come hell or high water, and not even a thousand men could stop him.

He would chase the King endlessly if he had to.

Because, deep in his heart, he still held onto hope.

The forlorn hope that, when he won, the King would admit defeat.

That the king would finally admit Mordred as a son.

In his heart, Mordred knew that if that would happen, he would cast aside the crown and his sword in an instant.

Just for that man to, just once, call him "son."

* * *

><p>Sir Lucan fell, mortally wounded as Mordred finally found himself face to face with King Arthur.<p>

Even now, he watched him with an expression of disinterest, neither understanding nor seeking to understand him.

"Prepare yourself, King Arthur!"

Mordred raised Clarent in front of him as he waited for the King to stand guard. With his other guards all in their own battles, there was nobody who could now stand between Mordred and the King.

Arthur was not holding Excalibur, his usual sword—instead, he held Rhongomyniad, his spear.

Mordred smiled inside. Instead of fighting him as an equal, the King had opted to choose the tactically superior option, the spear[4]. The King evidently knew of and feared his prowess with the blade. In a way, the king had acknowledged him.

And so, finally, father and son met on the battlefield, fire on ice. Confidently, Mordred rushed into the battle.

And yet, he did not instantly disarm the King. The King's prowess on the battlefield was not undeserved, and charge after charge was negated by the point and shaft of the King's Spear.

Every enthusiastic charge was dashed like a wave on the unchanging iceburg of King Arthur's expressionless face with no result.

And gradually, Mordred's enthusiasm gave into impatience, and then rage.

Each of Mordred's attack's was parried, nothing more.

Once again, the King was ignoring him.

He wasn't treating him as a threat, just something that had to be blocked.

And that enraged Mordred.

"…is that it?" he managed between breaths as he stepped away.

The King gave no response, simply staring evenly back.

"Is that all you have to show, King Arthur? Don't you hate me? For what I've done to your knights? To your Conquests?"

The king said nothing, simply staring back calmly.

"Don't you hate me? Or is this another fight of yours, another calculated victory?"

And yet the king remained silent to Mordred's prodding—and finally, Mordred felt his anger reach his limit. Charging forwards, he swung viciously, a blow that forced King Arthur back two steps with the strength of the onslaught.

"Look at Britannia now! It's people are tired, its fields lie barren, it's wealth is exhausted—Because of YOU!" Mordred snarled as she charged forwards to close the gap between them.

"IF YOU HAD RECOGNIZED ME AS YOUR HEIR, I COULD HAVE FIXED THAT! I WOULD HAVE BROUGHT PEACE TO THIS LAND, AND YOU WOULD BE REMEMBERED AS THE KING WHO UNITED IT!" Mordred stabbed forwards with Clarent, blocked at the last moment as the King backpedaled, struggling to deflect each strike.

"WHY? WHY WOULD YOU NOT ACKNOWLEDGE ME? EIGHT YEARS I HAVE FOUGHT IN YOUR SERVICE, NEVER WAVERING!"

Another Blow, blocked once again with trembling hands by the spear shaft.

"EIGHT YEARS I HAVE BEEN YOUR MOST LOYAL KNIGHT, THE ONE WHO HAS NEVER FAILED YOU—IS IT BECAUSE OF MY MOTHER THAT YOU HATE ME? IS IT BECAUSE YOU CAN'T ADMIT SOMEONE WITH YOUR TALENTS? WHY?"

The King's face was not impassive anymore—and Mordred saw something—was it fear?—in his eyes. And it heartened him. With an almighty sweep, he finally sent the King to his knees. Breathlessly, he stepped back.

"WHY DO YOU NOT RECOGNIZE ME, ARTHUR PENDRAGON? WHY DID YOU NOT EVEN CALL ME SON EVEN ONCE? DID YOU HATE ME, THE SON OF MORGAN, THAT MUCH?"

The King's silence was absolute, like a death sentence. And, with a yell, Mordred charged forwards, raising Clarent to strike the final blow—

—and then he felt a hot coldness enter his stomach.

Without stopping, as if unafraid of the strike, King Arthur charged forwards, driving the head of the spear through Mordred's stomach as he closed in, step after step. With what strength he had left, Mordred slashed with Clarent—he felt it cleave through armor into flesh before it fell from his numbed hands. The greatsword clattered loudly-and then split, the blade snapping into two in between King and knight. For a moment, they stared at each other, unaware of the loud silence around them on top of that hill of swords.

Slowly, a crack ran across Mordred's helmet. Stricken by hundreds of glancing blows, the iron helmet given him by his mother split apart, falling to the ground, and he was face to face with the man he loved and hated the most.

"I…I have never hated you," the King said.

Mordred froze.

"Y- you…"

"Not once did I despise you," King Arthur continued slowly.

Mordred was lost for words.

"There was only one reason I would not give you the throne.

You didn't have the capacity of a King."

And, as Mordred looked into the King's eyes, he saw something else—and though his expression was the same as always, what Mordred saw was not impassivity. It was sorrow. Regret. Pain. The pain of watching a thousand knights and close friends fall around him—the pain of watching a burning farmhouse, a widow and her children. The weight of a thousand decisions, each of which held a thousand lives on the line. All of the things that had been in those eyes that he, behind his mask, had never once seen.

And, impaled by his own father, Mordred realized that, all this time, King Arthur had truly been fighting for him and Britannia.

He realized too late. Mordred knew that he was dying—the coldness that spread form his chest was testament to that.

But at least one time.

Weakly, Mordred raised his hand.

Slowly, his hand moved towards the King's face.

He didn't notice the tears that slid down his face.

He didn't ask for atonement, or for forgiveness.

At least once, Mordred Pendragon wished, I can touch the King as a son.

His blood-soaked hands reached out as he opened his mouth.

"Fa...the…"

And then the last gasp of breath left his throat.

At the very end, even his smallest wish was left unfulfilled.

King Arturia Pendragon watched the young boy fall to the ground as she allowed Rhongomyniad to fall from her hands.

Another victim in her long reign as King.

Another victim sacrificed for Britain.

Without a support, she slumped down, propped up by just Excalibur, stuck into the ground nearby.

With an effort, she raised herself up—and saw a field of swords.

Normally, following a battle, the victorious warriors would gather up the armor and arms of the slain, as spoils to bring back to their homes, or as a memento for lost brothers.

But here, the corpses, swords and spears lay unmolested.

For there were no survivors to loot the dead.

Here was the full fighting force of Britain, fallen by its own hands.

Just another one of the many casualties she had caused.

Arturia Pendragon knew her time had come. This wound was not merely mortal, it was fatal.

And there would be no one left to resist the Saxons.

Camelot was lost.

Britain was lost.

And it was all her doing.

"…Your Highness!"

She looked up at the knight in blue and silver next to her. Sir Bedivere, tired but unbowed, held out a shaking hand.

"Your Highness, are you alright?"

Arturia looked up at him. The two had been friends on that day, both knights in training, that day where she had drawn the sword from the stone. Since that day, Bedivere's hair had greyed from a thousand battles. Scarred and haggard, he was yet another victim of her misrule.

Arturia smiled sadly.

"Yes…just a little tired."

* * *

><p>It was morning when Arturia awoke, her back shifted against a tree.<p>

"Bedivere…" Arturia looked up.

"Yes, your highness?"

"…Where are we?"

"…next to the Lake, by Camelot."

"…the lake where I obtained Excalibur?"

"Yes, your highness."

Arturia looked up at Bedivere. "Bedivere, take this." With limp, cold hands, she held up Excalibur, the sword with which she had won many of her victories.

Bedivere looked confused. "But, your majesty, this is your sword—"

"…It was lent to me by the Lady of the Lake. Return it to her."

"But you require this sword—"

"…Go, Bedivere."

"...Yes, your Majesty."

Three times Bedivere returned, each time claiming he had returned it. Each time, Arturia told him to return it.

"…Return it, Bedivere. Let me rest for some time."

For a moment, Bedivere looked torn—and then, finally, he nodded. "Yes, your highness."

Arturia Pendragon heard the sound of hooves fade away once more and closed her eyes.

On that day, left alone by all the older knights, she had drawn that sword without hesitation.

Had she cursed all of Britain on that day?

Had she deprived Britannia of someone perhaps better suited for the role?

For ten years, she had fought for Britain.

For ten years, she had strove against her enemies, won battle after battle.

For ten years, she had put her very soul into Britain.

Yet, it was not enough.

At the end, she had failed. Merlin, Kay, Lancelot, Gawain, Percival, Gaheris—all those around her had fallen, and now she, too, was about to fall, leaving a Britain unprepared for the next wave of Saxons.

In a way, Mordred had been right. For her own pride, she had taken her men into war after war. For her nation, she had chosen to prioritize the many over the few.

_If only I had never been King…_

That had to be it.

If she didn't draw that sword, another man would become king, a man better suited, one who could truly save Britain. Not a girl who carried nothing but good intentions.

Yes, that was it.

Closing her eyes, Arturia Pendragon made a prayer.

_If there is a God, one who can alter my fate, I pray for all of Britannia—let me have never drawn that sword. Let me have never been King. _

_Let Destiny be altered._

_Let this cup be taken away from me. _

_For the sake of all of Britannia._

* * *

><p>"…"<p>

Arturia Pendragon opened her eyes. She was in some kind of church or chapel. She could feel a cold breeze. She felt the chill on her skin, the weight of her sword by her side. She was in her prime, ready for battle.

Everything was as expected.

God, it seemed, had granted her wish.

She knew the fight ahead of her would not be easy.

Other heroes, many far greater than this boy-king, would take part, many with far greater reasons to take the prize.

But she would persevere.

Arturia Pendragon will change her destiny.

No matter what it takes.

And so, without hesitation, Servant Saber looked up at the individual in front of her.

Without hesitation, she said, "I ask of you—are you my master?"

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Notes – for those interested<strong>

* * *

><p>[1] Battle of Camlann in the 530s AD – Personally, I call bullshit on this. The term "Knight" didn't exist until the first millenia, and even in the 800's, Charles Martel's warriors might have rode on horses but dismounted for battle against the Muslim invaders at Tours. Plate Armor (armor made not out of chain mail, but of actual plates of metal like Saber's) doesn't emerge until after the hundred year's war, long after 1000 AD. The Battle of Camlann, if it existed, was never like what was shown in FateStay Night. It would have been celtic warriors fighting in (at the very best) crude chain mail. But since Elevens clearly don't know shit about European history we'll go with the Nasuverse version.

[2] Totally not awkward – it's kinda weird, and Kinoko Nasu was a little awkward about it too. Apparently, to create an heir, Merlin and Morgan Le Fay worked together to give King Arturia a male reproductive organ for a short time, at least enough time for which Morgan could obtain the genetic material to create Mordred. My question is how she never noticed enough to ask Merlin "hey, what about that time you gave me a dick?" I'm not going to imagine how it worked out, but I won't write about it.

[3] Le Morte D'Arthur – quoted from Le Morte D'arthur, the book by Thomas Malory that helped to popularize the Arthurian legend. Malory depicts Mordred as a villain, but he still does concede that Mordred had his charms.

[4] Spear vs. Sword, Rhongomyniad – In fate/zero and fate/stay night, King Arthur is shown fighting the Battle of Camlann with a spear, it's not my fault. But it is true that in single combat, the spear is superior to the sword—in fact, the traditional sword is one of the weakest melee weapons, only useful if you're also decked out in plate armor. Even in the case of the Samurai of Sengoku-era japan, the traditional weapon was the Spear. There are a lot of reasons I won't elaborate, but the reason swords permeate our culture so much is that human culture has always had a fascination with swords, for well over a millenia. I won't elaborate on it too much, but my point being that the sword is actually the weakest melee weapon short of the dagger, and Saber is doing the smart thing here. For more, go here ( ht tp : / / www . streetdirectory . com / travel_guide / 13026 / education / myth_of_the_sword . ht ml )

* * *

><p><strong>Postface - From FateNightmare Apatheia Author and this Fic's Coauthor, HeavyValor**

* * *

><p>Hey. HeavyValor here.<p>

This is something of a mere formality, and yet it … isn't. I've been working with Mr. Sparkles for a long, long time. Not just on this fic, but on a variety of projects. Over the past year, we've been throwing around ideas, debates, and concepts on a daily basis for the Fate][Nightmare Apatheia and Fate][Zero Eos series. I never expected it to come this far, or for such a world to be weaved by the two of us. I suggested Fate/Zero Eos after Mr. Sparkles hounded me for a good month or so about the virtues of Fate/Zero. I knew that the background of F/NA was going to need major, major work, more than I could handle. With the advent of the F/Z anime (which I still haven't watched yet), a second author would be absolutely necessary. This wasn't the main reason why F/ZE exists, though.  
>I asked Mr. Sparkles to help me write this world because he is an unparalleled writer, an authority on both subject matters, and a good friend for nearly two decades. His knowledge of FSN is top notch, and his grasp of the machinations behind Code Geass is impeccable. Indeed, I think Mr. Sparkles is a better writer than I am, though his slightly odd capitalization habits is a subject of much jest on my part. He has stood by my side even amidst the plethora of silly concepts for F/NA (mind-control backpacks and robot knightmares , for example). I could not ask for a better comrade in this endeavor. I sincerely thank Mr. Sparkles for being my cowriter, "ghostwriter," and primary critic for Fate/Nightmare Apatheia. I do hope you enjoy this fic, which is more of a stand-alone fic than a companion fic to F/NA, but taking both together will lead to a very satisfying experience.  
>I'll be a bit presumptuous and beseech you, reader, to follow my fellow writer's expedition into another facet of this war with the most intricate scale, from the single Servant and Master pair to the thousands of memories marching in the armies of the world. Read and Review, without further ado. HeavyValor out.<p> 


	2. 3 Years Ago: Death of a Saint

**The Death of a Saint**

_"Our greatest pretenses are built up not to hide the evil and the ugly in us, but our emptiness._

_The hardest thing to hide is something that is not there."_

-Eric Hoffer, Social Writer

* * *

><p><strong>Summer 2007 ATB<strong>

**Marseille, French Republic**

**European Universe**

This is the story of a certain man.

A story of a man whose ideals drove him into despair.

A man not wise enough to understand his ideals, but not stupid enough to blindly follow them.

He was born with no physical or mental defects, no mental disorders or birth deformities.

His parents were not abusive or neglectful—born to a moral Christian couple well into middle age, he was treated as a miracle from a kind god.

When his mother passed away, his father took it upon himself to raise him.

His father had high expectations of him, but he always made clear his love for his son.

And the man met those expectations.

A serious, contemplative boy, he excelled in all he applied himself to.

He was not particularly talented, but he put his utmost into everything he did, and by dint of inhuman effort, he surpassed even the prodigies around him.

He had few friends, but the ones he did have were as good as any.

His academics were impeccable, and he was ever a source of pride and joy for his father.

Yet the man could derive no joy from what brought happiness to others.

The man was not psychopathic—having attended every Sunday School and recited half of the bible, he knew that a man should shun evil and take joy in what is good.

He had morals, he had common sense—but he simply could not understand morality

This view was no different from a psychological or neurobiological standpoint—studies have shown that works of altruism activate reward pathways within the brain[1], bringing pleasure.

And yet, the man could feel no joy from helping others. Though his friends and his father showed joy when he did what was right (as he had always been instructed), he himself obtained none of it.

Was it that he lacked patience?

Was it that he lacked humility?

Was it that he was simply broken, a hitch in god's mass production line?

His father, of course, assured him that this was not the case. Every soul was born loved by the Lord, and he had a plan for each of them. Joy would come to he who followed that plan.

And so, trusting in God, the man forsook many roads to promising futures in the hope that the Lord would reward him with happiness. Many mourned the loss of a promising student when he elected to join a seminary as one of the clergy, to his father's delight.

As in everything he had done, he was a perfect clergyman. His piety was like stone, his resolve like brass, and his ironclad faith inspired fear in the enemies of the church and inspired joy in many a convert.

Yet, on the cusp of his induction as a bishop, the man realized he had received none of it. Though he didn't doubt the existence of good and his inherent goodness, he could feel no joy knowing he served him, no fulfillment.

He felt no happiness when he blessed marriages, no grief when he attended funerals.

But the man did not lose faith. Perhaps this was God's way of telling him that this was not his future. That there were other things planned for him.

And so, he abandoned without regret what his superiors told him would have been a straight path towards an archbishopric or even a place on the curia, choosing an obscure wing of the Roman Catholic Church devoted to fighting heresy. From there on he went from branch to branch, occupation to occupation, always looking for the fulfillment that always eluded him.

He purged himself, reforged himself, put himself through endless trials, all simply for the feeling that he had accomplished something.

At the end of the day, he realized that he had received none of the happiness and pain he had brought to many.

His peers admired him.

His father, while a little perplexed, remained ever proud of him.

But none of them understood his emptiness.

Nothing he did, no good he had ever done moved his heart, as it moved the hearts of others.

He was simply different.

Defective from birth.

When the man approached his father about it, his father simply said he was lonely. Without a mother, secluded in the clergy, perhaps he was simply lonely, with only a wizened old father as company.

Perhaps he wanted a family. A woman he could love, a child he could nurture.

And so his father ignited the last spark of hope within him, hope for simple, normal happiness.

With his father's blessing, he resigned himself from the clergy.

He devoted himself to finding a wife and finding joy.

He no longer aspired for anything as great as the divine joy of religion, the peace that passeth understanding promised by God to those who followed his precepts.

He simply wanted normal happiness—the happiness of a father and a husband.

He chose somebody without any hope, without a future.

She was a terminally ill patient at a nearby hospital with only a few years to live.

For two years, he tried to love her, and she tried to love him.

She did truly love him.

In those two years, they settled together, had a child—and she was truly happy. To her, he was her hope, a last joy given to a woman who had conceded the end.

She understood his pain, his struggle. She knew his anger, his despair. She did all she could to end it.

But it was not enough.

The harder she tried, the more fulfilled he felt when she failed.

Even this woman, a Saint who truly and faithfully loved him over her own life, could not find the cure.

And, gradually, horrifically, he realized that he was, in fact feeling happiness.

Not the happiness in the joys and fortunes of this woman and their child, but the happiness at their tribulations, at their suffering, the pain that tested the brave, peaceful smiles on their faces.

It was then that he decided that no human could ever understand him, the pain of a man who knew he was broken and fervently wished he was not. Not the psychopaths who happily accepted their lack of morals, nor the ordinary man or woman with their simple desires and loves.

He was an aberration, a mistake.

He was hurting the woman who loved him.

It was better that he disappeared.

* * *

><p>"I could not love you," he said simply to that woman on that rainy night.<p>

She was bedridden, in her final weeks of life.

He knew that those words would hurt her.

But he had a duty to say those words.

And yet she smiled.

"No. But I love you."

And there, in front of him, she killed herself.

She did not have much longer to live at any rate.

There was no meaning in stopping her, no reason. Both of them knew that.

And, even in those last moments, covered in her own blood, she smiled at her husband.

"See? You're crying."

To prove his worth, the woman was willing to take her own life, to prove that he could love, had loved.

Those tears, to her, was a validation of his love.

She died with a smile on her face.

The tears that man shed, to her, was his salvation.

The man wished he had shed them. He truly wished he had.

Yet, of course, he hadn't shed anything.

He felt sad.

He grieved.

But it was not because she died.

At that time, that voice he had always tried to suppress spoke clearer than any other. "What a pity. If she were to die, then I would rather have killed her myself."

Even with the death of that saint, he could only wish to have perpetrated her misfortune.

And it pained him. Perhaps it was the grief of a missed opportunity—or perhaps it was the last struggles of a common sense that told him he was a demon for holding that desire.

The woman's death was not meaningless.

She had proven to him that he was broken, that there was no answer.

There could be no salvation.

If he felt joy from the pain of others, it was better he never feel joy at all.

He left his daughter to be raised at an abbey and rejoined the clergy.

He had never once looked back.

* * *

><p>It had been a year since then.<p>

_Was it the right decision?_ Kirei Kotomine asked himself as he watched countless sails flutter in the Bay of Marseilles.

A voice behind him spoke. "Enjoying the view?"

Notre-Dame de la Garde. Built on an old fort, the basilica is one of the greatest landmarks of the city of Marseille, overlooking much of this ancient city.

"Yes," Kirei lied. It didn't feel much different than any other city.

Tohsaka Tokiomi smiled indulgently. "You don't get such sights back in Japan. We really ought to thank your father for this view."

"Nonsense. Travel expenses are travel expenses," an old, wrinkled man in a cassock responded. Nobody in the church doubted Risei Kotomine's integrity and faith, but the man enjoyed life.

Though Kirei knew his father was on good terms with the caretaker of the Fuyuki spiritual ground, he had never met the man.

Though he dressed like a banker, Tohsaka Tokiomi carried all the suave grace and handsomeness of a Britannian Aristocrat. His beard would have looked stupid on a less striking man. Though his appearance was predominately oriental, there was a clear Caucasian influence in his facial structure as well.

It wasn't often you'd see a magus and a man of the church together.

Since the institution of Christianity as the state religion by Emperor Constantine and Emperor Theodosius in the early 300's, the Magi and the Church have been in a state of prolonged hostility, the magus slowly driven into hiding via a hundred wars, from the Crusades to the Inquisition to the Protestant Reformation. Though the two bodies had not been officially at war since Italy had made peace with the Papal States[2], the secretive Magus Association and the Billion-strong Holy Church were in a state of cold war. If a magus and a man of the church were found in meeting, there were likely to be repercussions, particularly to the skulls of each of the offending parties.

Combining a highly-ranked magus, a representative of the Church and a Church Executor, these three men were probably some of the most secretive men in Marseille.

With dressed in two cassocks and an impeccable red suit, these three men were also probably the sweatiest. The summer breeze did little to alleviate the blazing sun, and Kirei was acutely aware of the sweat dripping off each strand of his hair.

If Tokiomi was bothered by the heat, he gave no sign.

Instead, he delicately removed the white glove that covered his right hand, the kind of gloves that aren't thin enough to be disposable nor thick enough to be good for anything other than decoration.

Underneath were three darkened circular marks, almost bruises.

The same type of marks Kirei now bore on his own palm.

"The command seals—a sigil representing the Grail's decision to choose you as a master for the Fourth Heaven's Feel," Tokiomi said patiently.

When his father had discovered the mark on his hand a few days ago, he had rushed over from Japan to Kirei's home and Italy and then taken him to Marseilles under the protection of the Church, explaining the rules on the way.

Heaven's Feel. The war for the 726th artifact known as the Holy Grail.

A grail that could fulfill any wish.

A barbaric ritual in which seven masters would summon humanity's greatest heroes and engage in a wholesale slaughter in the sleepy Japanese town of Fuyuki.

And Kirei had just been chosen to take part in three years.

"It seems you don't understand the great honor given you," Tokiomi remarked pleasantly.

"Is the grail selective? Does it target certain candidates?"

Tokiomi nodded. "Without a doubt. The Grail prioritizes its makes, a member of each of the three founding houses—a candidate for the Von Einzburn, a candidate for the Makiri, now the Matou, and a candidate for the Tohsaka. The other masters are chosen from qualified magus. That a nonmagus without any experience with magecraft such as yourself has been selected is a great and unusual honor."

"I will, of course, participate as the representative of the Tohsaka."

Kirei, though, was confused. Why would his father bring him to meet one of the men he would have to fight?

"About the Heroic Spirits…"

"The servants," Tokiomi corrected.

"The servants…wouldn't a battle in a densely populated area cause huge casualties and bring trouble to the association?"

From what Kirei knew, it took multiple exorcists to subdue a rampaging full-fledged middle-class demon. Saints, like that former Knight or that Kanzaki woman[3], could be equated to cruise missiles in raw combat ability. A heroic spirit, one who has surpassed what is impossible, is only one step beneath an angel. Having seven of them fighting each other could well be tantamount to a carpet bombing campaign.

"I will not say it hasn't happened," Tokiomi responded simply. "The founders had chosen Fuyuki as the spiritual ground over other powerful grounds, such as Jerusalem and Ireland, because it would arouse much notice. But Japan was modernizing by the time of the last war. Today, Fuyuki is a densely populated urban area with a large civilian population."

"And that's where the Church comes in," Risei concluded. "It is in the mutual interest of the association and the church that magecraft remains secret. As such, I was dispatched in the last war in the capacity of a supervisor, in order to coordinate cleanups and moderate the war. But that's not it."

Kirei nodded. It made sense for now. Within the political labyrinth of the Magus Association, there could be no reliably neutral body except the Holy Church, which hated all members of the association in equal measure.

"The truth is that we in the Church know that this Holy Grail, like the others, is not the cup that held the blood of christ." Risei and Kirei were both members of the Assembly of the 8th Sacrament, a portion of the church devoted to the recovery and categorization of sacred artifacts. Most of what they recovered were far from what they were purported to be, and given the sheer amount of "holy grails", Kirei was not surprised.

"Nevertheless," Tokiomi remarked, "the grail is incredibly powerful. The power to summon not one, not two, but seven Heroic spirits is only a portion of the might of the grail. In the wrong hands, it could cause the deaths of thousands."

"Then why not end the ceremony?"

Risei smiled. "Those who fight the Holy Grail War are prepared for death. To try to dismantle it as a heresy would be…difficult. War could well result."

Kirei nodded, slowly. He was starting to understand why he was here.

"And so…"

"As clergymen, it is our duty to mitigate the casualties by ensuring that the Holy Grail finds a proper master."

"The Matou magus line is drying up, unfit for the holy grail," Tohsaka said mournfully, "and the Von Einzburn have let personal desires obscure the original intent of the founders, the search for the Origin."

The ultimate the ideological and philosophical goal that all magus ultimately aspire to: the uncovering of the Akasha, the root.

The inscribed record of all that has and will happen in the world. The building block of every science, magic, religion, and philosophy. The answer to every question. The source code of the word, if you would. One who has seen the akashic record has the knowledge of god.

"The discovery of Akasha does not affect the doctrines of the church, nor does it pose a danger to humanity," Risei said simply. "Moreover, the Tohsaka have held onto their faith in spite of years of tribulation—they are friends to the church."

At the end of the 16th century AD, Japan boasted the largest Christian population in all of Asia, boasting 130,000 converts. However, the fear that Christians were dominated by the Spanish and Portugese and the belligerence of many Christian Daimyos led first Totoyomi Hideyoshi and later Shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu to suppress Christianity. The remaining Christians were driven into hiding, persecuted and hunted. Tohsaka Nagato, the founder of the Tohsaka Clan, had been a Hidden Christian. Even as he joined the Magus Association, he kept his faith and his ties with the Church. Fuyuki, as a result, held a rather large Christian population. When Lord Perry's black ships sailed into Yokohama bay and ushered the end to national isolation, Fuyuki's population happily helped in the erection of the Kotomine Church. The Tohsaka was one of the few magus houses that the Church saw in a positive light.

"The Grail…can do that?"

"…that has always been what it was meant to do," Tokiomi replied confidently, "and that is what we, the Tohsaka, have always wished for. Where the Matou and Von Einzburn have erred and where other masters have come to fulfill their own lust for power, the Tohsaka seek only the root. We are the only ones who deserve this grail."

There was no arrogance or puffed up pride—Tokiomi's sincerity was clear. To this prideful man, the fact that the grail belonged to him was not something to boast about, nothing to crow about. It was simple fact.

"And…I am to help you?" Kirei said slowly.

Risei nodded. "Bluntly, yes." There was no pretense of neutrality in his father's eyes. Risei—and the church—wasn't playing fair.

"Will you do it?" Tokiomi smiled pleasantly, but there was perhaps a hint of a threat.

Kirei would, naturally. This was not about what was right or wrong. He was an Executor of the Church, one of the many organs of the body of Christ. In god's name he had killed demons, but men as well, magus and heretics. He had a duty to his church and to his god.

Tokiomi, possibly reading the expression on Kirei's face, smiled. "Then you will be transferred to the magus association as my apprentice, effective immediately."

"Immediately?" Kirei blinked disbelievingly. The Church was known for its bureaucracy, and he surmised the political magus association had similar problems.

And yet, looking at the document Risei produced, two Archbishops and an association representative had signed the document yesterday.

"You will learn some basic magecraft and skills required for the war in the next three years," Tokiomi continued without pause.

"But won't my status as your apprentice betray our alliance?"

Tokiomi smiled, not the indulgent smile he had held previously, but a cold, merciless smile. "Ahhh…you from the church would not understand the politics and machinations of the Magus Association. It is not unusual, in the association, for a master and a former apprentice to fight to the death."

Like the Church's many denominations, the Magus Association was a web of complex political rivalries and alliances. Clock Tower in Boston, Atlas in Egypt, the Prague Association in Czechoslovakia, each of these groups frequently fought each other when they were not at war with the church. Rivalries could get quite vicious.

Kirei nodded slowly.

Tokiomi looked across the walls, at the streets of Marseille. "Do you have any last questions?"

"Only one. What is the criteria for the selection of masters?"

"It selects one of each of the founding houses, and then prioritizes magus who truly need the grail's miracle. If it cannot obtain the sufficient number, it will recruit from those who aren't quite qualified…"

"Then could it choose randomly?"

Tokiomi blinked. It seemed he wasn't expecting the question. It took him a moment or two to return to his graceful smile.

"No. I don't think so. The grail does not make random choices…aaah." Realization dawned onto Tohsaka's face, and he smiled kindly. "you are wondering why you were chosen."

Kirei nodded. Why had the grail chosen he, the one who had no wishes?

"Well…it is a little strange. I suppose the link between you and the war is your father, who is the supervisor…? Or, rather, I suppose it's BECAUSE your father is the supervisor."

Kirei hid his confusion as Tohsaka narrowed his eyes.

"Perhaps the Grail chose you because he knew the Church would support the Tohsaka house. Yes, that must be it. The Grail has given the Tohsakas two servants to secure the grail. It is a sure sign of our victory, is it not?"

Any other man who said this would have been judged as an egomaniac. Yet, the ridiculous but unassuming arrogant dignity with which Tohsaka Tokiomi carried himself somehow managed to make even his ridiculous pronunciation sincere and dignified.

For this was Tohsaka Tokiomi.

Not like the new "aristocrats" of Britannia, flush with money plundered from poorer populations, nor the frumpy old order of carelessly rich, but the pride of a man who knew he was different and accepted it as fact. A true aristocrat.

Yet Kirei could not help but feel despair. That pronunciation could satisfy nobody save for an aristocrat such as Tohsaka Tokiomi.

Silently, Kirei excused himself as Tohsaka finished giving his orders.

Why had the grail chosen such an unbecoming master? Someone who neither had a desire to be used in the grail nor a desire for the grail?

* * *

><p>"He's a good son," Tokiomi said to Risei as Kirei departed.<p>

"He's more than a good son…he is everything that I could ever ask for," Risei said proudly. The old priest's love for his son was clear.

"I'm sure he'll serve us well."

Risei nodded. "He's an executor of the church. He would walk through the fires of hell if it was for the church."

Tokiomi frowned. To him, Risei was a grandfather figure, somebody he truly respected from the bottom of his heart. But what he saw in Kirei was not a burning, passionate faith, but the apathetic mindset of a man with no hope.

"Is he prepared for this war?"

Risei frowned. "Physically, he is in the best of shape. Mentally, though…"

Tokiomi glanced at Risei. "something the matter?"

"This might be a chance for him to get away from Europe." There was a faraway look in the old man's eyes. "It was this time, a year ago…"

"that?"

"His wife died. They loved each other very much," Risei said at length.

For once, Tohsaka's dignity failed him, leaving him lost for words.

"Perhaps going back to his homeland will give him a chance to recover," Risei said finally.

Tohsaka smiled genially. "Don't worry. I'll treat him as you treated me—as my own son."

Risei returned the smile. "I'm sure, this time around, with Kirei, you can succeed where your grandfather failed."

"Of course."

**Afterword: I apologize in advance, as this is largely nearly identical to the actual Prologue to fate/zero. The obvious reason, is, of course, that unlike in Fate/Nightmare Apatheia, the Code Geass universe has yet to really collide with the Nasuverse. I will do my best to try to add new content from now on, but this scene was definitely needed for anyone who didn't watch fate/zero or read the novels.**

* * *

><p><strong>Footnotes and References<strong>

* * *

><p>[1] h ttp :  www. washingtonpost. Com / wp-dyn / content / article / 2007 / 05 / 27 / AR2007052701056 . ht ml

[2] The papal states were one of many states in what is modern Italy, the papal states being located in central Italy and containing Rome. In our history, the Italian national movement led to the unison of many of the Italian states. The Papal States was eventually reduced to the area around Rome, and in September 1870, Italy officially annexed the Papal States and captured Rome. Pope Pius IX, who rejected this decision and had ordered the city's guards to mount a defense, shut himself in the Vatican. The church never gave up its claims on Rome until 1929.

[3] A reference to a certain magical anime.


	3. 3 Years Ago: Glasgow :Pilot 1:

**Author's Preface:**

This chapter is a reposting of the first pilot for Fate/Zero Eos, posted by HeavyValor. While I have made some minor changes, there is no overall difference to the story plot. However, I will also post a second chapter with this one with original content, so I hope you guys don't feel too cheated.

* * *

><p><strong>-Glasgow-<strong>

_"It is well that war is so terrible - otherwise we would grow too fond of it."_

-Robert E. Lee, General of the Confederacy

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

**9 Years ago (from the standards of Fate/Stay Night)**

**Mojave Desert, Nevada Province, Britannia (Area 1), Holy Empire of Britannia**

Cadet 1st Class Monica Kruszewski uncomfortably adjusted the collar of her dress uniform as she stared out the bus window. For all its harsh inhospitability, the endless hills and rolling dune of the Mojave desert had their own kind of rough beauty. Here and there, a few cacti stuck their stubby green middle fingers at the desolation around them. The endless sand seemed to stretch into the horizon, dotted only by a few hardy shrubs.

After a few hours, though, the beauty of nature had long since worn off.

Next to her, Airman Dorothea Ernst's loud snores made clear her interest in mother nature. Monica's mentor at the Air Force Academy, Ernst seemed unperturbed by the glaring sunlight. Monica gently pushed Ernst off her shoulder, sighing. Beautiful, confident and a born leader, the dark-skinned idol of the Britannian Imperial Air Force Academy looked quite a bit less respectable when asleep.

Not that she could be blamed for sleeping—At 0300, Monica, Ernst and several of the other air force cadets had been woken up and bundled into a military bus. Painted in Britannian Blue, Red and White, the bus was a modification of a popular civilian model commonly used by Chinese-Britannian immigrants back in New York.

Then again, Monica conceded, Chinatown buses were not manned by Military Police with guns. Dressed in full combat armor, the soldiers had remained tight-lipped to the Cadets' questions, for all intents and purposes robots behind their opaque combat gear.

The fact that the soldiers had left them to their own devices suggested that they were not about to face a summary court martial (it had happened before—with terrorists such as the Sons of Liberty and the Liberation Army of Gran Columbia always looking for a weak point, the Office of Secret Intelligence was always on the prowl for dissent). Yet, Monica wondered, why would they be woken up without any forewarning?

Moments later, the bus stopped in front of a heavily fortified gate.

Whatever they were here for, they would find out soon enough.

* * *

><p>Air Force Flight Test Center, Detachment 3 - more commonly known as Area 51, this barren airfield was the birthplace of many a conspiracy theory, from a weather controller to an alien research facility.<p>

If they were trying to control the weather, Earl Lloyd Asplund grumbled, they had surely failed.

The Nevada sun was harsh to most people—but for a man of Science who rarely ventured out, it was unforgiving.

The 20-year old Earl crawled on all fours as he scrambled across the Tarmac, too dehydrated to care about the concerned-looking Military Police who called to him.

_Almost…there…_

The silo door was only a few steps away, the only barrier between Lloyd and the refreshing paradise of Central Air Conditioning.

With a doglike pant, Lloyd dragged himself forwards and reached for the doorknob with sweaty, trembling hands—

—And then the Silo door swung open, slamming him in the face. With a soundless cry of pain, he curled into a fetal position.

"Nice weather, isn't it, Pudding Earl?"

"A Cool day for the Insane, I'm sure." Reinvigorated by the burst of cold air, Lloyd got up and strode inside without giving a glance to the young Indian woman who had been his assailant. Like Lloyd, Rakshata Chawla wore the half-suit, half military uniform of the Imperial Colchester Institute of Technology. Sponsored directly by the Britannian Military, Colchester was probably the best Engineering School that a prospective student could attend for free. Graduates could expect a 100% employment rate by the Britannian Military, though most simply walked into the waiting arms of the countless Corporate Entities that dominated the Imperial Senate.

"You wouldn't last a day where I came from," Rakshata noted airily. One year Lloyd's junior, the Indian immigrant had jumped head and shoulders over her peers and entered his year—to his chagrin.

"I'm sorry I wasn't born in hell, but I do envy the experience," Lloyd replied with equal magnanimity.

"Stop bickering, you two, and help me out." Professor Reuben Ashford yelled from across the room. It was common knowledge that the two most brilliant students in the CIT Undergraduate Class of 2010 mixed like burning oil and water. The fact that they often worked in the same projects meant that the conflict embodied something of a small war.

Grudgingly discarding his verbal rapier, Lloyd looked up at the giant metal scaffold on which his professor was perched. Surrounded by a cheap metal framework stood what looked like a giant suit of chivalric armor, clad in undecorated sheet metal.

The Glasgow Project.

It had been in development for several years.

And, in a few minutes, it would change the face of modern warfare.

* * *

><p>Some of the guests at this outing were intrigued by the location. Some of the more imaginative Nobles talked of possibly being the first to greet an Alien Race, or the discovery of some ancient Time Machine, or of Freemasons and Illuminati, the usual bits of half-occultist gossip.<p>

Tohsaka Tokiomi was not remotely interested.

To Tokiomi, the life of the average human was just as mysterious as that of any extraterrestrial.

After all, he was a Magus.

He was not particularly interested in the affairs of nonmagus, particularly not in this arms demonstration in this barren desert so far away from his home in Fuyuki.

Yet he was a high-ranking member of the Magus Association, and a representative of his region of Japan. Procedures and formalities had to be obeyed, and as head of the Tohsaka house he had a duty to obey them. And so he adjusted his starched crimson suit and put on a hearty (albeit sweaty) smile as an old man in a priest's frock walked up to him. Risei Kotomine nodded in way of greeting.

"You seem to be adjusting well," Tohsaka remarked. The old priest didn't seem to be breaking a sweat in the weather.

"Beats Iraq," Risei replied. "I see the association didn't let you refuse either."

"Of course. Welcoming fellows," Tokiomi replied with an airy laugh.

Kotomine shook his head. "Welcoming? They can barely wait to get rid of me." In a nation that looked down on the decadent beliefs of old Europe, a Catholic priest was hardly welcome. But as Liaison to the Holy Church, Risei Kotomine was the only member of the clergy that the Magus Association considered lowly enough to be condescendingly invited and high-ranked enough to make a difference.

To Tokiomi, on the other hand, Risei was a friend. The Tohsaka, as Magus with links to the Church, had always maintained good ties with the Kotomine, clergy with magical potential. To Tokiomi, Risei Kotomine was a second father. He had married Tokiomi, his father, and his grandfather. At over 75, Risei had met Tokiomi's great-grandfather during that last conflict 60 years ago.

The Holy Grail War.

The one that Tohsaka Tokiomi was now preparing to fight.

"How are negotiations?"

Risei sighed. "A bit difficult. The Curia is fine with it, but the Burial Agency doesn't seem too pleased. From what Kirei told me, they were planning on just going in with Executors and just taking the grail by force."

Tohsaka opened his mouth to reply—just as a blast of sound swept over him. With an inhuman roar, three Britannian Fighter Jets screamed over them at several times the speed of sound. Some of the Magus took a few seconds to recover themselves.

"I suppose we'll talk after this barbaric display," Tohsaka remarked with dignity.

Risei's grizzled face broke into a smile. "Of course. Let's indulge our hosts."

Tohsaka sighed. This was why he disliked going to these shows. Nonmagus did everything so rudely, so brutally, with loud roars and bangs.

It was quite inelegant.

And if there was one thing that Tohsaka Tokiomi could consider a crime, it would have to be inelegance.

* * *

><p>"Your Highness!" The Imperial Guard saluted in perfect unison, snapping their elaborate rifles to their shoulders as Emperor Charles zi Britannia entered the booth. Jeremiah Gottwald's eyeballs strayed ever so slightly from their straight paths as he ogled at the individuals who had entered. Knight of Four General Reyes of the Army; Secretary of War Lord Grimsley; Admiral Glenn; Air Force General Upson, among others. Put together all the Fruit Salad and Medals on their chest and you would get a small Jewelry Shop. However, these generals all seemed to clump together a respectful distance from the Emperor and the Child next to him. Jeremiah assumed it was one of the Emperor's many children—for all the slander that the EU and the Chinese Federation directed at the Emperor, nobody could accuse him of impotency. Jeremiah couldn't tell if the child was a prince or a princess.<p>

Yet, The Emperor spoke to the child not with the cold detachment he usually held for most of the Princes, nor the doting expression he had on some of his favorites, but with a kind of subtle respect.

It was strange, the way the grown man spoke with the long, blonde-haired child was not the way a parent spoke to a child, but the way a man spoke to his equal.

For a moment, Jeremiah was tempted to try to catch a strain of the conversation—and then mentally shook his head. Curiosity breeds disloyalty. Jeremiah turned his attention back to ignoring the insistent itch on his back leg.

* * *

><p>The limousine driver mopped his brow to the tune of his favorite Death Metal band. Lord mac Ailella did not like Death Metal. In fact, the only thing he allowed were his classical tracks<p>

_All the more reason to play it twice as loud now._

Even on full AC, the sunlight blazed through the tinted windows. The driver groaned. He did not spend 8 years first in the Imperial Marines and then the Office of Secret Intelligence to cart around some old man. To get in, he had to get through a group of men in old suits and about half the Nevada Imperial Military Police. And now he had to spend a few hours just waiting.

"Hot day, isn't it?"

The driver looked up at the Military Policeman. The man didn't seem too perturbed by the weather. The man proffered a cigarette. Nothing expensive, but the Driver didn't mind.

"Thanks."

The man could be anywhere from twenty to forty, with a light dusting of facial hair and messy dark hair. He smiled wryly. "I can't do it at home. Can't let the wife and kids breathe it."

"I get you," the driver replied heartily. His girlfriend didn't like it either.

"Sorry, but can I check your ID? Regulations."

The driver shrugged. "Sure." He had an OSI clearance, after all.

The military Police officer gave a casual glance to the ID, and then the Driver. Their eyes met. The man's eyes seemed opaque, murky. Almost like a vacuum, threatening to suck him in—

Emiya Kiritsugu waved to the limousine driver as he walked off.

* * *

><p>"Main cannon, firing!"<p>

With a muffled Whump, the turret of the M-33 Clinton fired its ammunition, rumbling through the Heavy Tank.

"You got them," 2nd Lieutenant Andreas Darlton remarked as he looked away from his periscope. The M-33 was truly an improvement over its M-1 Cousin. With heavier armor, a more powerful engine and electronics amplified with Sakuradite, the M-33 outmaneuvered, outgunned and outsped its predecessor. As if to prove Andreas' point, a bright splotch of Yellow burst appeared on the turret of an M-1 tank. The M-1 grudgingly ground to a halt as a referee shut its electronics down.

Darlton was not a man who often showed his emotions, but he was proud of his men. Drawn from the 4th Armored to participate in this Military Exercise, his men, armed with their new Clinton, had decimated most of their enemies—or at least decimated them as much as a tank armed with paint shells could.

"We can do this, men," Darlton spoke calmly into the radio. His radio operator smiled. In their time in the 4th armored, they knew that from Darlton this amounted to extravagant praise.

"Alright, men. Let's clean this up."

"The Toromo M-33 Clinton is the newest face of modern warfare," General Reyes explained proudly. The old general's illustrious record went back to the Pacific War, when his armored forces had trampled over countless Pacific Islands. To him, the M-33 was like his grandson, except they didn't get into cheating scandals at colleges.

Emperor Charles zi Britannia said nothing. The Columbian-born Honorary Britannian had loyally served his father, assisting Charles in his countercoup against Charles' Uncle after his assassination. By all means, the man had earned both his Knighthood and his Office.

Yet the man was getting old. Though few knew it yet, war was on the horizon, and General Sir Jorge Reyes would not lead them. The man was a by-the-book Tank-and-infantry general. But Charles suspected that the Tank-and-infantry war would soon be the thing of the past.

Meanwhile, the M-33s had finished their skirmish, and the referees reactivated the paint-scarred casualties.

"Alright, men, let's pull back," Andreas Darlton ordered.

The Radio Man didn't respond. He turned around. "Sir, it seems like the referee wants us to take up positions."

Darlton blinked. The exercise was over. "Against the M-1s?"

The Radio man seemed just as confused. "No, sir. With the M-1s."

* * *

><p>"Startup Procedure, Initiate."<p>

"Energy Filler Connection, Check."

"Disengaging external scaffolding."

"Disengaging Wires."

"Starting Up Yggdrasil Drive."

"Turbine Temperature, stabilizing."

"Are you ready, your highness?" The voice of Bismark Waldstein was as calm and expressionless as always.

As the ground crews stepped away, the vast second-floor silo doors began to open, Nevada sunlight flooded in.

Marianne vi Britannia's serene face broke into a mischievous grin as the dark cockpit lit up.

"Glasgow, Sortieing in three."

"two."

"one."

"Mark."

* * *

><p>"General Reyes."<p>

"Yes, your Highness?"

Charles casually stared at the tanks setting up positions on the practice field.

"What was your opinion on the Ganymede project?"

Reyes sniffed. "With all due respect, Your Highness, Infantry and Armor have always been the driving force on the battlefield. The battlefield has no place for giant marionettes."

* * *

><p>Andreas Darlton stared into the periscope of his M-33.<p>

"Silo doors opening…"

"…Paint shell, ready!"

"Firing!" His M-33 fired with a suppressed Whump.

And then, with a whine of screaming metal, two…things screeched off the second floor helipad. With the limited visibility of the periscope, Darlton craned his head up—just as the…things landed in between the first rank of M-1s.

Darlton blinked. He could barely believe the periscope—it looked like a giant suit of armor. Colored in dull green, the giant suit of armor seemed frail, and yet nimble.

The M-1s, aware of the danger, turned their paint-splattered turrets towards the metal thing—and hesitated. Even with paint shells, nobody wanted to shoot their allies. The humanoid armors had no such qualms. Aiming what were essentially oversized assault rifles, they quickly opened fire, leaving new splotches of scarlet paint on the nearest M-1s.

"All Units under my command, move back," Darlton quickly ordered. It was a bit cruel to leave the M-1s to their fate, but even the advanced targeting systems of the M-33 could guarantee a hit on those mechanical armor frames without friendly fire at close range.

The M-33's quickly backed away as the two mechas finished off the hapless M-1s.

"All Units, load and prepare to fire."

With a 400-meter stretch of open space between the line of M-33s and the disabled M-1s, Andreas was confident they would be able to take down the two mechs. They weren't exactly small targets, after all.

The last M-1 was manually deactivated as the mechs cleared the unmoving tanks.

The gunner looked up. "Round ready!"

Andreas nodded. "Fire!"

With another muted cough, the M-33 opened fire, sending its paint shell—right into the hulk of a disabled M-1.

One of the radio operators from another M-33 put Darlton's confusion into words. "…the fuck?"

Seeing the humanoid machines, Darlton had expected them to break out into some giant, mechanical stride.

Instead, they rolled. Like a 90's homosexual roller skater, the mechas slid with an agility that defied even the fast M-33, leaving clouds of torn-up concrete. Zig-zagging past explosions of paint, the first of the Armor frames weaved between the M-33s, leaving paint marks on the often unmarked new tanks.

Darlton gritted his teeth. If it came up to a formation, the M-33s could bring down a unit of the Mechas. The problem was that these machines ignored formations. Like a tiger among sheep, the armor frames slid between the M-33s. The M-33s could not fire even if they could keep up—their teammates were only a missed shot away.

"Driver, move us back!" Darlton barked frantically. "Gunner, load!"

"Shell, ready!"

Staring into his sights, Darlton cursed frantically as he glanced back into the periscope—right into the barrel of a paint gun.

"fuck."

And then, with a dull clang, the M-33 powered down.

Darlton slumped down, wiping the seat off his brow.

The gunner slammed his first against the hull. "Fuck! How was that fair? What was that?"

Andreas Darlton sighed as he leaned back in his seat. He wasn't sure what that was—but he was sure he wanted one.

* * *

><p>Knight of Four, General of the Army Manuel Reyes stared at his paint-splattered M-33's. The red paint that now scarred their previously spotless hulls looked like blood. His blood.<p>

Charles Zi Britannia betrayed no emotion as he looked at the general. "I believe you turn Seventy-two this February?"

"Yes, milord."

"Perhaps it is time that you retired to your estate."

"Milord…"

The Emperor eyed the general. "Manuel, you've served Britannia for over fifty years. You've led Britannia's armies for most of it. But wars is coming, general. And it has no place for you."

Reyes looked to the other generals—and then realized something.

He was, by at least 20 years, the oldest general among them. None of them had served alongside him during the Pacific War. Some of them hadn't even taken part in the recent Indochina conflict. He was the last of his generation, and he could expect not support from this new generation.

He looked back at his Emperor—and yet, the Emperor's eyes betrayed nothing. At last, Manuel Reyes gave up.

"…I will hand you my resignation shortly."

The other Britannian Generals stood aside as Reyes walked through them, off the spectator's booth.

Somehow, he realized that he would never be there again.

* * *

><p>Tohsaka Tokiomi hid his surprise as he watched from the bannisters. Looking around, even some of the magus present seemed a little impressed by the arms display.<p>

"Not quite as ugly as the rest of the things that they come up with." For a magus, to condescend to praising technology was already reasonable praise.

Risei shrugged. "It all comes at the expense of faith." With the advent of the Age of Enlightenment in the 1700's, faith in the church had waned significantly, and it was common knowledge that the Church's exorcists were vastly undermanned.

Tokiomi said nothing. Unlike the Church, whose strength lay in open faith and numbers, the Magus Association's isolation and secrecy had benefited from the age of science and reason, as incongruent as it were with magecraft.

Indeed, the battleground where his great-grandfather fought, the land of Fuyuki his family administered, had transformed in 60 years from a quiet rural hamlet into a bustling city rife with urban development.

"Was it the same in Iraq?"

Risei shook his head. "The Middle East is…too different for either the magus or the church to understand. The only reason they associate with the church is that they consider us a lesser evil than the Association. The monarchs of the Middle Eastern Federation are trying to balance modern technology with an antiquated system of clan politics. I doubt they will succeed."

"A rather sad shadow of a nation, particularly when you bring into consideration the venerable civilization whose ruins their new ugly cities are built on," Tokiomi murmured.

Risei Kotomine smiled. "Fortunately, they haven't went as far as to destroy their heritage just yet, as these Britannians have done." Few in the church had forgotten Britannia's actions against the Catholics of what had once been the nation of Gran Colombia and now bore the unsightly designation of Area 6. Still, that was not the information that interested Tokiomi.

"…So you found it then."

"Indeed. The Church is not yet devoid of political power, Tokiomi-san."

Tohsaka Tokiomi smiled, this time with genuine gratitude. "Father Kotomine, you have done the house of Tohsaka a great service. We will be forever be in your debt for this."

"I'm sure you're making it up to my son, Kirei."

"Of course." Tohsaka Tokiomi looked up at the sky. The harsh Nevada sun suddenly seemed much milder.

* * *

><p>Cadet 1st Class Monica Kruszewski stared at the two giant humanoid robots that had singlehandedly cleared a field of battle tanks. As Air Force Cadets, she and her peers were not very familiar with how tanks worked, but she was pretty sure that something that could destroy a small unit of tanks was something she had never seen.<p>

Next to the air force cadets, a group of other cadets in Navy Airmen Uniforms seemed similarly shocked.

The cadets had been ushered into the first floor of an empty plane silo, where they had watched the battle at ground level.

With a screech, the two knightmare slid past the disabled M-33s, smoothly skirting the barrel of a tank that had been caught in midfire—towards the silo.

One of the Cadets, in Army Uniform, voiced everyone's thoughts.

"Aren't those things coming…a little close?"

"I think they might crash," Dorothea said nonchalantly as she stepped back.

The Armored suits charged towards them with a screech, and the cadets began to move back. Monica tensed herself, preparing to leap backwards—for all the goods it would do her.

The suits charged, still at full speed—and then, suddenly, they stuck one of their legs in front of them, and Monica spotted the large wheels attached to their feet as they decelerated. With a skidding sound, the knightmares closed in—

–and then a blast of sandy wind struck her face, forcing her eyes closed—

—and then silence.

Monica opened her eyes—at the thick, metal legs just twelve inches away from the tip of her nose.

With a pneumatic hiss, something at the back of the Glasgow disengaged, and a familiar-looking woman in a white uniform stepped out. With a casual shake of her head, she loosed a few strands of dark hair from her shoulders as she smiled down at the cadets.

"That's—" One of the cadets stammered.

"Knight of Two—"

"—The Emperor's favored consort—"

"—Empress—"

"—The Flash—"

"Marianne will do," Empress Marianne Vi Britannia, Knight of Two, said as she leapt from the shoulder of the knightmare, landing on the silo soundlessly. Behind her, another figure followed—a man with shoulder-length purple hair and an eyepatch—a person no less illustrious.

"—and this is Bismark," Marianne said, immediately cutting off the little bursts of shocked whispers that came out of the group of Cadets. Nobody in the Cadets would have simply referred to the Knight of One, the most powerful of the Emperor's handpicked Knights of Rounds as "Bismark."

"These," she continued as she gestured at the mechas, "are the Glasgow Knightmare Frames. They will be our new weapons in our next war."

Next War? With the Britannian Intervention in Indochina—no, Area 10 just completed, most Britannians were looking forwards to peace. And yet the Empress was speaking of war.

"These Glasgows are going to have to prove to the world that they are a weapon that is to be feared. They must be fearless, agile, confident, strong."

Monica was starting to realize what was going on as Marianne continued. "And they will need pilots who are equally fearless. Equally agile. Equally confident. Equally strong."

And then Monica froze. The Empress was looking straight at her—no, simply at the unit of cadets. Yet, she felt herself wilt under the Empress's gaze.

"You men and women shall be fearless, as the Celts were against the Romans."

The burst of frantic whispering died away.

"You men and women shall be agile, as our Archers laid low the Knights of France."

All eyes locked onto the Empress' Gaze.

"You men and women shall be confident, as our Sailors were against Spain's 'Invincible Armada'."

Monica felt a tremor shake her body.

"You men and women shall be strong, as our marines were on a thousand islands in the Pacific."

Monica could feel her heart beating against her chest.

"You men and women shall be Britannia. Are you men with me?"

And in that moment, Imperial Knightmare Corps Cadet Monica Kruszewski could feel her own tinny voice join in the chorus as she bellowed "Yes, your Highness" at the top of her lungs.

* * *

><p>"…Target in sight."<p>

The female voice echoed in Emiya Kiritsugu's headphones.

"Yep, I see him."

Emiya Kiritsugu moved like a machine, tracking the man through the scope of his Walther WA2000.

Lord Miles mac Ailella.

Aged 43, born in Dublin, Republic of Ireland.

A magus of the Prague Association the main branch of European Magus known for his ties with Boston's Clock Tower, the "capital" of the Britannian Magus Association. Formerly a strong ally of the Alchemical house of Von Einzburn.

Yet, the man had leaked information on the Grail War to Clock Tower.

He would endanger Kiritsugu's mission to Fuyuki.

The danger of allowing him to live was so great that the Von Einzburn would rouse Kiritsugu out of his six-year retirement.

And so it would be Kiritsugu's duty to eliminate the man.

"Sir, please stand back."

"Of course, Maire." Lord Miles mac Ailella stood back as his bodyguard, Maire stepped forwards. The half-selkie shook back her perennially wet hair as she stepped forwards.

Miles sighed. He probably shouldn't have hired Maire—selkies were known for their skills of seduction, and Maire seemed to have inherited it from her father.

Then again, the woman would break his arm if he tried.

"Nope, no traces of prana here."

Maire was the ultimate butler—a former Enforcer from the association (Before a venture in the Puntland had gotten her an arrow in the knee), her combat skill equaled Miles' skill in politics. No ordinary magus could match a half-spirit.

Maire glanced at the driver suspiciously before sitting in the front seat as Miles sat in the back.

"Some Mendelsohn, please," he requested of the driver, who complied with a touch of reluctance.

Kiritsugu emotionlessly followed the car with his scope. As expected, the magus had only been alert for attacks via magecraft—and while magecraft could do far more damage than the explosive strapped underneath the seat, the Magus' bodyguard hadn't checked. To a magus, who could put up a shield that could resist an anti-tank shell in a few seconds, the only real danger was another magus. They would be waiting for a long-winded spell or at least an influx of prana before an explosion, when a bullet would suffice.

Kiritsugu quietly took a drag on his cigarette. The driver would probably die in the explosion—an innocent by any means. But it would come at a fraction of the cost of the lives that Britannia could take with Miles' information.

The female voice of his assistant, Maiya Hisau, echoed in his head. "Detonating in 5. 4. 3. 2. 1."

And then, with a gout of flame, the limousine burst into smoke and flames.

* * *

><p>Charles zi Britannia closed his eyes as he heard the dull whump of the explosion.<p>

He glanced at the boy with foot-length blonde hair. "Brother, should we have just let him get away with that?"

V.V. shrugged. "I would have sent Rollo if he didn't. He knows too much."

"The Holy Grail War…can it really be our weapon against our gods?"

* * *

><p>"This is Japan Airlines Flight 224 from Las Vegas to Hiroshima. It is now 6:43 PM in Las Vegas and 11:43 PM in Hiroshima. Please refrain from using electronic devices while on board."<p>

Tohsaka Tokiomi leaned back as he basked in the reflected sunlight of the clouds.

The First Class seat absorbed him like a sponge. For all its crudeness, commercial airplanes had their amenities.

"Drinks, sir?"

"Tea will be fine."

Tohsaka smiled graciously at the stewardess. He was in a good mood. In a few hours, he would be home with his loving wife and two—no, one, daughter. And he had found what he was looking for. Carefully, he opened the small metal case in his hands.

Surrounded by bulletproof gas and nestled on a bed of velvet was an old, crinkly affair—an old snakeskin, preserved beyond its years.

Silly to think such a humble-looking thing would be the catalyst.

With a smile, Tokiomi closed his eyes, condescending to using the airline's noise-cancelling earphones. Hundreds of years of work by the Tohsaka would be completed under him.

After all, with the King of Heroes as his servant, how could he lose?


	4. 1 Year Ago: The Code Geass :Pilot 2:

**Well, readers, this is the second pilot posted for fate/zero Eos on Fate/Nightmare Apatheia. Of course, a chapter of new content has been posted along with this one. I hope new readers enjoy, and old readers continue reading on! -Mr. Sparkles**

* * *

><p><strong>Note: A sketch of the characters can be found at (remove spaces) ht tp :  / thejimmierustler . deviantart . co m / art / F-ZE-Geass-Order-Immortals-296051895**

* * *

><p><strong>-The Code Geass-<strong>

_"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,_

_Creeps in this petty pace from day to day"_

-William Shakespeare, _Macbeth_

* * *

><p><strong>2009 A.T.B.<strong>

**Alamut, Kingdom of Persia**

**Middle Eastern Federation**

Alamut Fortress.

Farsi for "The Eagle's Nest."

Over a millennia ago, an order of warriors had set up base on this mountain.

For two centuries the Asasiyan and their leader, Hassan-i Sabbah watched over Persia from this mountain fortress, hidden in plain sight.

In all its existence, Alamut had never been taken by force of arms.

The Hashashin, as they were called by their enemies, had long since vanished, and the fortress itself had largely crumbled.

But the fortress remained, as unchallenged as it had always been.

That impregnability would be challenged tonight.

The UH-80 Athena sliced soundlessly through the night with its four silenced blades. Unlike the standard model used by the Britannian Air Force, this variant had been built for enhanced stealth.

Completely wrapped in body armor and opaque visors, the occupants of the helicopter were as silent and unmoving as the pagan statues of a bygone era.

Two generations ahead of the ceramic armor of the Britannian Army and Marines, the futuristic armor worn by each of the helicopter's occupants was jet-black, save for a dark crimson figure sewn on the left shoulder.

The Queen of Hearts.

The symbol of the Queen's Rangers.

The elite of the elites of the Britannian Military.

The copilot turned around from the pilots seat as each of the UH-80's stopped. Motioning with his or her hands, each squad's leader led the way as they rappelled down into the moonless night.

* * *

><p>"'…the Assassination of Empress Marianne vi Britannia is seen by many as an act precipitated by the Britannian Nobility, which has always resented the induction of non-nobles into the royal family. This comes as a major blow to the Empress's backers within the Imperial Senate, many of which secured major production contracts thanks to the Empress' influence. This is Abdi Mousa of Al-Jazeera, reporting from Pendragon.'<p>

'Thank you, Mousa. In other news today, Chinese Minister of Foreign Affairs Cheng Anping accused the Britannian Military of aiding rebels in war-torn Annam (Author's Note: The Imperial Chinese name for Vietnam, meaning the Peaceful South. Contrary to its name, Annam has always been characterized by war while under chinese rule.)…'"

The LCD TV flickered for a moment before returning to normal. To be honest, C.C. was surprised that it was working so well at all. That satellite signals could be transmitted half a kilometer underground was a wonder in itself. Of course, the news did not surprise C.C.—whatever reached Al-Jazeera had long since reached the ears of the Geass Directorate.

With a sigh, C.C. turned the TV off with the flick of her hand.

"Is it not to your interest?" The girl behind C.C. looked a little disappointed.

"When Nine Hundred Years you reach, be quite as interested you will not," C.C. quoted wryly.

"Blechh. You're really an old lady inside," Soraya remarked glumly. C.C. smiled thinly. Somebody like Soraya who had only had her Geass for a year had a type of innocence that only an Apprentice Geassholder would have.

Like many of the Geassholders who had been raised from childhood in the vast underground city that was the Geass Directorate, Soraya was fascinated by society outside of the Directorate. The wavy-haired, petite Persian girl had been thrilled when C.C. had chosen her out of the hundreds of geass candidates as an Apprentice Geassholder.

C.C. didn't mind Soraya—an orphan picked up from the many religious battlegrounds of the MEF, Soraya reminded C.C. of herself when she was younger. It was who she was replacing that was the problem.

Of all the many men and women with whom C.C. had cursed with Geass, the power of Kings, none had understood her as Marianne Lamperouge had.

And now, with Marianne killed, the whole plan was in jeopardy.

C.C. stood up as she adjusted her robe.

"Come on, Soraya, we have a meeting to attend."

* * *

><p>Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.<p>

Rollo opened his eyes wearily to the sound of an IV drip.

The same sterile medical lights shone down him. He didn't need to move his arms to feel the usual shackles securing his arms and legs.

He knew exactly what happened—he had blacked out, once again.

It wasn't as if it was unusual—when he had first used his Geass, he had been knocked out for two days.

He had been under the study of the Geass directorate since that day.

For the Directorate, a geass that could completely halt the sense of time without any sensory stimulus was far too rare, far too dangerous to be allowed outside into the world. The fact that it stopped his heart in the process was not of major concern for the directorate.

The priority was to categorize record and analyze the ability for when it would emerge again. Even if it meant sealing the subject away for the rest of his life.

"…You don't want that, do you?"

Rollo remembered that question. The Immortal had thrown it out almost haughtily—casually, like a billionaire carelessly throwing a coin at the feet of a scrabbling beggar.

In a way, it was true.

The Immortals—the Eight Lords that presided over the vast structure of the Geass Directorate.

To the countless nameless orphans who stood at the bottom of the directorate, they may as well have been billionaires.

But Rollo did not mind scrabbling on the ground for that coin. On that day, that he had sold his life to that blonde-haired Immortal for a name and his freedom.

The Blonde-Haired Immortal who now daintily stepped over the dead bodies of the Directorate researchers.

With a careless keystroke, the immortal known as V.V. unlocked the shackles that bound Rollo to the chair he had sat on. Several other shapes walked into the room—men in black uniforms that whispered and muttered into their helmets.

"500 ng/L diluted Epinephrine, prep for injection," one of them ordered to two others, who immediately began rummaging through their bags. Rollo stared blankly. Somehow, he already knew that the drugs would be for him.

V.V., meanwhile, smiled a serene smile at Rollo, as if both of them were on a leisurely picnic.

"Rollo, you remember what you have to do, right?"

"…yes, milord."

* * *

><p>The guards that stood watch on the battlements of Alamut were not underequipped. Outfitted with night-vision goggles and dressed in military BDUs under their Bakhtiari nomadic garb, they could probably hold their own in a firefight against even the well-equipped Britannian Army.<p>

The Queen's Rangers had been briefed beforehand on the nature of the enemy. These were genetically modified soldiers, many of which held any number of abilities, from telekinesis to UV vision. If any one of them fell, it was likely that one of the others would notice. If any of them sensed an enemy, the others would likely find out.

They all needed to be defeated at once, a feat that would be nearly impossible, even for the Queen's Rangers.

And so they awaited for the promised sign.

* * *

><p>C.C. walked with a brisk stride across the bridge as Soraya struggled to keep up. Over the railings, the vast subterranean complex of the Alamut Thought Elevator. Streetlights illuminated the streets and buildings that jutted out of each nook and cranny.<p>

The Geass Directorate had been around since the birth of man. From the Geass directorate had risen Kings, Philosophers, Warriors and assassins, all dedicated to protecting Humanity from the shadows. It was a Geassholder of the directorate that had assassinated Chancellor Adolf Hitler on the verge of world war; a geassholder who had delayed the French Fleet during Washington's Rebellion; a geassholder who had rescued the Last Empress of China from Japanese Forces during the first Pacific War.

This was the organization that C.C. led, for better or for worse.

"Whose idea was it to install the purple lighting?"

C.C. paused midstep at the young dark-haired boy who leaned against a streetlight.

"U.U., it was your idea. You said it reminded you of home."

"Ah, did I really?" The little boy laughed. "My memory fails me sometimes."

C.C wasn't about to blame him. U.U. (უ.უ. in his native Georgian), was at least four centuries older than C.C., easily the oldest surviving Immortal in the directorate. For all his youthful appearances, the boy was C.C.'s elder.

Behind U.U., the tall blonde Nordic woman that was U.U.'s Apprentice, Siri, nodded politely as se casually slipped an eyepatch back on top of her purple-hued eye. "Nobody's following you, milady."

"What am I, a light pole?" Soraya grumbled—to herself. As a geassholder whose geass had already become rampant in one eye, Siri was much farther down the path of a Geassholder, and Soraya, whose geass was still dormant, owed her respect.

"Well let's go, Yunyun and the others are waiting." U.U. led the way towards the glowing pillar at the center of the city—one of the eight portals to the gods—Dakhma, the Thought Elevator of Persia.

Stretching from the bottom of the cavern to the very ceiling, the Thought Elevator bathed the whole city with a soft, purple glow.

C.C. felt an involuntary twitch as she watched the massive structure—for all her time in the geass directorate, she could never quite shake off the unease she felt around a thought elevator.

All of the eight Immortals had a connection with the Thought Elevators, though each Immortal was particularly attuned to one. This thought elevator was protected by U.U., who had been chosen by the previous immortal guardian for the role.

Yet if U.U. was perturbed, he gave no sign of it as he and Siri led the way towards the old stone structure that stood among the concrete and steel of the modernized Geass Directorate.

Two guards saluted through keffiyas and what looked like night vision goggles. With so many geassholders within the city, the Directorate's guards wore modified night vision goggles and earphones that were built to filter out Geass transmitted through sight and sound. There had been rebellions in the past.

The lighting inside the Temple of Akasha was provided solely by the purple light of the thought elevator. At this distance, it glowed far brighter than any LED, bathing each carved stone pillar in its ambience.

Silhouetted in the purple light were several figures.

"…Charles' plan will be stopped because of this, won't it?" Sen, the Immortal of the Khagan Thought Elevator, was not known for being indirect. The bearded, mongoloid man looked to be in his mid-40s. Even in a western Business suit, he emitted the air of wild independence from the days that he had rode with the Golden Horde.

"As rushed as always, Sen." An old man laughed cheerfully as he perched on a nearby bench. For all his senile appearances, Mai Mai, the immortal of the African Thought Elevator, was one of the youngest of the eight immortals, having only been inducted Ten years ago. He had yet to even select an apprentice geassholder.

"Those that move with haste move all the slower, Sen." A young Asiatic woman laughed lightly from where she had waited behind a pillar.

Sen didn't seem unperturbed. "…Isn't it a saying in your home country that you ought to 'strike while the iron is hot,' Yunyun?"

Yunyun smiled. "Chinese people have too many proverbs for one person to remember." Around C.C.'s age in appearance, the guardian of the Kaminejima Thought Elevator had only recently obtained her code from her mentor, Nene. Yunyun's apprentice, Soo Jin, waited silently nearby, her tense expression the opposite of her Master's carefreeness. As Soraya approached, her hand strayed ever so slightly on the archaic sword by her side.

U.U. glanced around. "Is this everyone?"

"V.V. declined the invitation. I couldn't contact R.R., or Sasa," Sen replied. "Then again, Sasa's out of touch half the time, and R.R. rarely leaves his cave anyway." R.R., a Sufi hermit and the guardian of the Atlantean Thought Elevator in Bermuda, had a tendency to seclude himself in the Syrian mountains. C.C. suspected that the hermit had left the Solar-powered phone the Directorate had given him in his cave for too long.

"V.V. wouldn't come anyway," Mai Mai remarked. "That boy may as well be on Charles' side."

Yunyun twisted a lock of her long jet-black hair with a hand daintily. "'That boy' is older than we are, Mai."

"He IS on Charles' side," Sen corrected without humor, consigning Yunyun's comment to nothingness. "He is abrogating the duty of us Immortals as the protectors of humanity. By all means, one of our apprentices should replace him and his ridiculous plan."

U.U. shrugged. "The more important question here is what effect the Empress' death has on Charles' plan."

C.C. hid her slight annoyance. As someone who had been living for almost two millennia, U.U. was probably older and wiser than any of the other Immortals. Yet, those two millennia had shrank the value of each human life to his eyes.

When you've lived over a thousand years, the 80 years of a man's life is simply the blink of an eye. Each name was no longer a name, simply a label for 1/7 billionth of humanity's total net worth.

It was ironic, honestly.

In their devotion to their goal of protecting humanity, the Immortals had forgotten the worth of each human.

Only Marianne had managed to remind C.C. of that. Marianne Lamperouge had been the first friend C.C. had made in a long time. When Marianne had told her that they were taking their first steps towards achieving a perfect world, C.C. had believed that.

She had tried her hardest to believe that.

It was with C.C.'s help as the head of the Geass directorate that Marianne and Charles had hunted down the rogue Immortal who had held the code to the Vinland Thought Elevator and inducted V.V. as the eight Immortal.

It was Marianne who took C.C.'s side when she had her second thoughts about Charles' plan.

And now she was dead.

"Marianne and I were the only ones who still had objections about Ragnarok. If anything, Charles and V.V. are more likely than ever to go ahead with Ragnarok."

Ragnarok. The death of the gods. The compete unification of Alaya, the collective consciousness of the human race, into one being, one place, one moment. The primal recombination of the souls of all humans into Brahma, the soul of the world. Theoretically, an end to all war, all hardship, all hate.

"Tch." Sen spat on the floor. "They won't, as long as we can help it."

C.C. nodded, slowly. Charles and his representative (U.U. preferred to say "hound") V.V. needed the divine construct that the Immortals guarded, the Sword of Akasha, to initiate Ragnarok. And the Sword would require all eight Codes of the Geass, the oaths that bound each of the Immortals to their thought elevators. To do that, he would require the consent of the other seven immortals.

V.V. had presented the idea to the other seven Immortal Lords, all of whom had proceeded to flatly reject it. As long as the other immortals stood firm, the Emperor and V.V. could do nothing.

Yunyun unconsciously twisted her hair into little ropes, a sign of agitation. "V.V….I don't trust him. Somebody whose whole plan has been derailed doesn't ignore the meeting that follows."

Sen nodded. "I've sent my Celio and the Directorate guards to bring him here to explain himself." Celio, Sen's apprentice, was close to reaching permanent Geass—a skilled fighter and a quick thinker, Celio was already regarded by much of the Directorate as an immortal.

"…Then I guess all that remains is to wait."

* * *

><p>The geassholders and scientists stood aside as Apprentice Celio Bolivar stepped off the monorail. In a cavern with a limited atmospheric system, the emission-free monorail was the only mass transportation available, and the train was often clogged. Today, though, cleared by Directorate Guards, the monorail car held only Celio and four guards.<p>

"No response from the compound," the directorate soldier reported. Unconsciously, Celio felt the mental tug that told him that the soldier was telling the truth.

His geass of lie detection was always active, seeking out the smallest nugget of untruth.

"We have a warrant from four of the six immortals present. We're authorized to go in anyway."

With a scan of a card, the entrance to the Guardian of the Vinland Thought Elevator's laboratory compound opened up. The lobby was strangely empty.

Celio sighed. "Where is Lord V.V.'s office?"

"Twelfth Floor, sir."

"Well, let's go."

The elevator doors silently opened, and Celio and his four Directorate guards stepped into the elevator, paying no attention to the bland jazz that played over the elevator. As if mocking them, the elevator slowly winked up from the ground floor.

Celio shook his head. Immortals could be quite whimsical—in fact, save for Sen, none of them could truly be considered serious. It wasn't necessary to send he and four guards to summon one of the Lords. In fact, it was a little rude.

With a grudging _Ding,_ the elevator reached the twelfth floor, opening up to reveal a long hallway lit by sterile, fluorescent light.

And, in the middle of the hallway, was Immortal Lord V.V..

And, huge in his childlike hands, was an assault rifle.

"Milor—"

* * *

><p>Trapped in a narrow hallway, the Directorate Guards and the apprentice had nowhere to run as the assault rifle sheared through them. V.V. smiled as he dropped the machine gun. Modern technology made aggressive negotiations a hell of a lot easier.<p>

"We could have done that for you, your Majesty," a soldier in combat armor said. Dressed head to toe in armor and protected from sound and sight-based-geass through visors and earphones, these soldiers had been armed and raised by V.V. himself. All over the Directorate, more of these soldiers were preparing for action. All they needed was V.V.'s signal.

"Sometimes you have to do things with your own two hands," V.V. said with a smile. A Directorate doctor, dressed in a bulletproof vest, walked up to him. "The subject is ready. He should be able to survive with 15 seconds of geass operation."

V.V. nodded. "Then we're ready." He turned back towards the boy sitting on the chair. The boy stared docilely at him. "Rollo, are you ready?"

"…yes, milord."

V.V. smiled. Not that he expected Rollo to say no. He nodded to the soldier behind him, who muttered into his intercom.

"Then Rollo, activate when in 5."

"4."

"3."

"2."

"1."

* * *

><p>In the darkness of the Persian desert, the expanding sphere of purple light suddenly seemed to bloom out of the ground, completely encircling the fortress that was Alamut.<p>

The Queen's rangers had been waiting for this signal from a distance.

The commanding officer had told the troops that the orb would guarantee them a mere 15 seconds to eliminate the guards on the battlement.

For the Queen's Rangers, 15 seconds was more than enough.

Countless sniper rifles coughed into the night, and the frozen figures of the fort guards crumpled.

"Go! Gogo!"

With a haste that approached panic, Rangers charged onto the battlements, finishing whatever guards remained with silenced pistol shots.

The rangers ran through the fort effortlessly, navigating the corridors as if they had lived there for all their lives.

After all, they had trained for weeks in a replica of the fort.

They knew exactly where to find the cold-war era blast doors, and each had memorized the entrance code.

For a moment after they stepped into the subterranean city, the Queen's Rangers could only stare. Most of them were grizzled veterans who had assassinated Britannia's enemies all over the world.

None had seen something quite like this subterranean cave.

But their fascination only lasted a moment.

With businesslike efficiency, they began pulling out weapons.

Pistols. Shotguns. Claymore Mines. C4. Grenades of all types. Assault Rifles. SMGs. LMGs. RPGs. SAMs. Missile Launchers, even a few flamethrowers.

They had a job to do.

* * *

><p>The purple wall washed over C.C. like a wave, sending a shiver through her spine. Though Immortals were immune to Geass, they reacted to its effects.<p>

"…A geass activation," Sen said slowly. C.C. immediately turned at Soraya.

"Soraya?"

There was no response. C.C. put a hand to her apprentice's palm—Soraya remained warm, and there was a pulse—but there was simply no response.

"…an Area of Effect Geass."

U.U. stood up, all humor gone from his face. "Some kind of time-stopping geass?" Reaching into his pocket, U.U. drew a handgun and disengaged the safety.

"—oring," Soraya finished out of nowhere. She blinked, as if somebody had just doused water on her. "Erm…I think I dozed off," she said apologetically, an apology that wilted away as she saw the expression on each of the immortal's faces.

Yunyun, who seemed unperturbed, turned to her apprentice. "Soo Jin, honey, please identify all Geassholders with a time-based ability with an area of effect."

"Roger." Soo Jin's left eye suddenly clouded, to be replaced by the glowing purple iris of a geass as she looked through her perfectly archived memory.

"Subject DE32-45A, named Liao Tailiang, the ability to stop the involuntary nervous system of the target for as long as the user's can be stopped. Former Apprentice of Nene. Currently in Chongqing. Subject BD55-29C, named Rollo, the ability to impede the sense of time, though it stops the heart of the user. Apprentice to V.V. Currently in the custody of the Directorat—"

And then a thunderous tore through the silence of the temple. Dust rained down from the old stone structure as C.C. struggled to regain her balance.

"V.V.," Sen muttered.

A distant rattle of gunfire tore through the night, instantly answered by another burst of gunfire, and then a distant explosion.

"Contact the Directorate Guards. Order them out to the streets," U.U. ordered to Siri, who shook her head.

"I'm just getting static. Nobody's responding."

"Signal Jamming," Soo Jin explained. "Common tactic by even conventional military forces these days."

Mai Mai laughed, a hacking, bitter laugh. "Technology advances fast, doesn't it?"

C.C. glanced at U.U.'s face. For all his tranquility, the sweat on his brow showed that he had not expected this. Honestly, she was partly to blame as well. Modern militaries upgraded their equipment every few years. Separated from the flow of time, the Geass Directorate updated about once every half a century. The current Directorate Guards were well-trained, but their equipment hadn't been updated since the 1990's ATB. Against an equivalent military force, they would be hard-pressed.

"V.V.'s after us," C.C. explained as she drew her own sidearm, a britannian air force handgun. "We need to get out. We can retreat to the Khagan Directorate for the time being."

Sen didn't waste anymore words as he stepped forwards. "Let's go."

"…wait."

Sen turned as Siri walked forwards, her eyepatch removed. "We have company." She drew out her own handgun—just as something the size of a fist bounced off the pillar with a metallic clang, landing at her feet with a hiss.

A smoke grenade.

With a hiss, a burst of grey smoke obscured the hallways as three shots rang out.

Siri calmly reloaded her handgun as she walked over to the two soldiers who now lay on the ground, One of them scrabbled for his sidearm. Without a second glance, Siri shot the man twice in the skull. Leaning over, she picked up the assault rifle on the ground and looked into the sights.

"XM29 OICW, Thermal Scope. They were planning on taking us down in the smoke."

Of course, the two men wouldn't have counted on a Geassholder with the Geass of thermal vision.

C.C. turned the corpse over.

"…This is Charles' doing. These are the Queen's Rangers. A unit of these guys took apart a whole Chinese battalion in Annam."

C.C. didn't tell the other immortals that she had been with them when it had happened.

"Charles has brought out the big guns. Right now, our priority is our protection," C.C. barked as she picked up the deceased Special Forces member's Assault Rifle. "We need to move."

* * *

><p>Rollo slowly opened his eyes. There was a tingling feeling in his chest, and his vision wavered slightly—but it seemed he had survived. One of the black-uniformed men, seeing this, threw away the Defibrillator in his hands.<p>

Next to him, V.V. smiled. "You did well, Rollo. We would have given up if you hadn't woken up then."

V.V. decided that it was best that Rollo didn't know how close he had been to death. Even with epinephrine, steroids and a cocktail of drugs, the maintenance of a geass field the size of the Geass Directorate for fifteen seconds could well have killed him. As it was, this boy would retain his use.

"…Rollo, are you ready for your next mission?"

Rollo nodded blankly, but obediently. "Of course, milord."

* * *

><p>"—"<p>

With a grunt of pain, U.U. stepped back, dropping his handgun to the ground as he stumbled and fell to the ground.

"U.U.!"

Yunyun ran over with C.C. as Siri threw a scavenged hand grenade in the direction of U.U.'s assailant.

U.U. grinned painfully as he put a hand on his bleeding chest. "A punctured lung…I've had worse," he wheezed.

C.C. curled her lip. It was bad news regardless. Each of the immortals were, as their names implied, immortal. With enough time, they could survive any kind of damage. Yet, that time was hardly short. It would take almost half a day for an immortal to recover a fatal wound—a mortal wound such as U.U.'s would take half an hour.

When C.C. had been with the Queen's Rangers, she had witness them clearing a Sons of Liberty Terrorist Base in the Rockies in twenty minutes.

If she hung back, it was possible they wouldn't make it.

"…Go," U.U. rasped. "He'll need all of us to win, and Siri will protect me."

Siri bowed slightly, a task that he somehow squeezed within bursts from his LMG.

"I'll keep Lord U.U. safe until he has recovered."

C.C. stared into U.U.'s eyes. The little boy's eyes, filled with centuries of experience, said two things.

The first that he was likely lying, and he and Siri would not make it out.

The second was determination. A determination that C.C. had forgotten she had not seen since the pacific war—the eyes of someone who was already prepared to fight to the end.

U.U. was her senior, and he had mentored her as the leader of the Geass Directorate. He had been around as long as she could remember, even as immortals died and were replaced.

He wasn't a father figure, but he was definitely close.

"Priorities, C.C.," U.U. said simply, and C.C. straightened up.

"Catch up with us at Khagan."

U.U. smiled as he picked up his gun again. "Of course."

The other Immortals stared—and then nodded.

"Let's go."

"Siri, put me against that pole," U.U. rasped. Dutifully, Siri propped the child against a pole.

"How long do you think we can give them?"

"Oh, a good hour."

"…Sounds good to me." With a loud snap, U.U. slid a new magazine into his pistol.

* * *

><p>"Breaching in 3! 2! 1! Gogogo!"<p>

With practiced precision, Sgt. Gregory Pierce, codenamed Yeti, charged through the burst of chaff and dust. As if in slow motion, he carefully squeezed off a burst at each of the shocked guards inside the residential building. For all of their archaic-looking uniforms and steampunk goggles, these terrorists were well-trained and well-armed.

They just weren't a match for the Queen's Rangers.

One of the turbaned terrorists, seemingly unharmed by the bullet in his shoulder, charged forwards, swinging his rifle like a bludgeon. Sidestepping the man, Pierce drew the combat knife on his arm. With trained precision, he drove the blade into the man's neck. The keffiya provided scarce protection as the knife buried itself into the man's neck. With a practiced twist, Pierce drove the knife up diagonally to ensure the serration of the carotid artery.

The corpse fell to the ground, a few last gasps of air slipping out of his throat like a punctured balloon.

That was all that Sergeant Pierce had done.

Dispose of a corpse.

When you were a soldier, you couldn't think of your enemies as humans. They were just bags of moving meat that had to be stopped.

There was no patriotism, no nationalism, none of the superficial emotions that those who had never truly fought imbibed into their war stories.

There was simply you and the enemy, as the first two enemies had done untold millennia ago.

It was kill, or be killed.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Room Clear!"

"Nice Finisher there, Yeti."

Pierce hid his annoyance. The names given to each soldier were supposed to be random. But for the last few battles, Pierce had noticed a certain theme in his names. Gorilla, Shaggy, Yeti…

He did consider himself a little hairy, but…

As the dust cleared, Pierce looked around the room. Huddled in the corner were a group of children—and Pierce suddenly blinked.

These were noncombatants. Civilians.

His soldier's mindset was instantly shattered.

He remembered his children, waiting at his hag of an ex-wife's home in Trenton.

He walked towards the children, sheating his bloody knife and opening his palms to show that he meant no harm.

The children shrank away from him, staring with crazed fear.

And Pierce remembered his mask.

The thing, with built-in gas filters and viewscreens, looked like the face of something that lived in pools of crude oil and strangled puppies.

Pierce disengaged the mask as he walked forwards, trying his best to smile.

"…Are you alright?"

The children stared at him—and then Pierce noticed something strange. Each of the children seemed to have heterochromia—and at least one of each of their eyes seemed to glow with a strange, purple color—

* * *

><p>One of the children fell down, limp, and Yeti straightened up. His squadmates turned.<p>

Dallas, one of his squadmates, walked forwards. "Yeti, you look kinda stoned—"

Yeti turned slowly, his assault rifle aimed from the hip.

Dallas blinked. "Y-Yeti, what are you—"

With a roar of gunfire, Dallas collapsed. The other squadmates stared.

"…You fuck!" With practiced precision, the assault rifles turned their muzzles towards their former comrade and opened fire.

The limp body of Sgt. Gregory Pierce fell to the ground.

The other members of Yeti's squad stopped at they glanced at the bodies of their squadmates.

"What the hell…"

"Did we…"

And then, abruptly, one of the squadmates pointed his rifle at the children and pulled the trigger.

Unarmed, unarmored and skinny, the children crumpled soundlessly.

"It was these little shits. They made Yeti go crazy."

The other squadmates stared—and then nodded. "we better tell the others. We've got a bunch of X-men or some shit down here."

"More like magneto."

"Roger that."

* * *

><p>With a bang, the building door fell open.<p>

A group of V.V.'s personal Directorate Soldiers cautiously stepped into the building their rifles ready.

The room was dark, and they cautiously switched on their night vision goggles as they rolled in.

The interior seemed empty. An apartment complex, the building had long since been vacated, and the remnants of a half-finished meal lay on the table.

Suddenly, they heard a sound. Spinning around, the soldiers aimed their rifles at a boy—who grinned wickedly through closed eyes as he flipped on the lights. Instantly, the night vision goggles were bathed in white light as the fluorescent lights flooded into the hypersensitive goggles, effectively blinding them.

U.U. smiled as he opened his eyes. With a steady hand, he shot each of the guards with his handgun.

"Not as smart as those Britannian ones," Siri said as she stood up from behind the sofa. "They would have breached and cleared."

U.U. grinned painfully. "All the better. This plan is actually going quite well."

With Siri's support, the two limped out of the building, back onto a deserted street. The sounds of battle were now everywhere.

U.U. smiled. It reminded him of a time, a long time ago, when fewer souls walked the earth.

Suddenly, he stopped as he felt a prickling on his arm. The Code on his forehead was reacting to another code.

"Siri, stop."

Siri looked surprised, but obeyed as U.U. managed to get to his feet. His Lungs were still damaged, but repair was underway. He would still be able to fight.

"V.V., you can stop skulking around and come out now."

U.U. did his best to keep his smile tranquil as the blonde boy walked forwards, escorted by a man in Queen's Ranger uniform.

"You look happy to see me," V.V. grinned a childish smile as he walked forwards.

In a way, it was kind of ridiculous.

Two children, smiling at each other with the hatred of two adults, guarded by their two charges.

U.U. was confident. Siri had outfought the other Special Forces officers before—and onces he had laid down a smoke grenade, her Thermal Vision would give her a definite advantage against that soldier.

"…What are you planning to do, V.V.?"

V.V. responded to U.U.'s challenge with a cryptic smile. "…you shall see…or rather, you won't."

U.U. grinned. "None of us will willingly open the Sword of Akasha for you—you gain nothing from taking one of the thought elevators, even if this one happens to be mine."

V.V. shrugged. "Well, there's no point in telling you."

"So you have no intention of surrendering?"

"…as if you are in any position to say that."

U.U. closed his eyes. "Well then, it can't be helped. Siri?"

Siri drew her combat knife as he stepped forwards, throwing her pistol to the ground in a contemptuous salute.

For a moment, the two guardians stared at each other—the Queen's Ranger expressionless behind his helmet, Siri so emotionless that she may as well have been wearing a mask.

And then the Ranger dropped his assault rifle.

Instead, he drew an elaborate knife from his vest—not like the modern combat knife in Siri's hand, but a long knife—a Dirk with an elaborate handle and hilt.

Siri turned towards U.U. with a grin. "…is it alright if I kill him?"

"Go right ahead."

For what felt like an eternity, the four figures stared at each other. The sounds of conflict faded into silence as the tension tightened, like a rubber band stretching to its breaking point.

And then it snapped. With a flick, Siri hurled a smoke grenade into the air, filling the space between them with smoke.

It was dishonorable, certainly—but Siri would do what it needed to win.

She could clearly see two shapes on the other side—the shape of the child and the soldier, still in a combat stance.

With the grace of a distance runner, Siri charged forwards, her knife clenched tightly in her palm. The soldier, aware of the danger, drew back, out of the smoke.

It was a wise move, but Siri still held the element of surprise.

The soldier put his left hand to his helmet as he held his knife ready with the right hand.

Knife fights are not like swordfights.

There are no fancy parries, no ripostes and backs and forths.

The one who strikes flesh would win.

And Siri knew she would strike first.

She shot out of the smoke, knife at the ready—and noticed two things.

The first was that the soldier had removed his helmet, revealing not a man, but the long hair of a woman underneath the helmet.

The second was the Geass in each of the soldier's eyes.

And then she felt her body freeze.

It wasn't that she had lost them or she felt pain. It was simply nothingness—an electric buzzing on her torso where an arm, a leg, a neck had once been attached.

The only thing left was numbness.

Somewhere, Siri realized that this was probably Geass that shuts down the peripheral nervous system's messages to the pain.

A geass that could disable even the hardiest warriors.

A geass that was simply a geass of unfeeling.

Siri could only watch as the other woman closed in—

U.U.'s handgun clattered to the floor. Siri, the apprentice who had never once failed him, flopped like a sack of fruit as V.V.'s guardian yanked the dirk out of her bloodied back.

"…W-watch…out…" Siri rasped as she fell to the ground.

"She's…she's got a full geass—"

With a single movement, the woman drew her sidearm and shot Siri in the head.

Instantly, Siri stopped moving.

U.U. could only stare as the woman charged forwards.

He didn't even respond as the hot poker stab through his chest.

He lay limp even as he felt the code on his arm fade away, absorbed into the arm of that woman.

Everything suddenly felt so cold, every breath felt like a battle no longer worth fighting.

He was dying.

He would disappear from this world forever.

After 1400 years of life, he would finally vanish away.

A few years ago, he had tried to return to his home with Siri.

He had gone back to his old hometown in Phasis, Georgia, the town where he had been raised.

All he found was the lake. His hometown had sunk under Lake Paliastomi. Everyone he knew, his parents, his friends, had all disappeared, without a trace.

All their worries, all their hatred, all their quarrels, all their joy, all of it had simply been blown away, like chaff.

And somehow, U.U…no, Ushisha Tsiravili, did not feel fear.

An eternity of nothingness, an eternal rest…

_Isn't it a relief?_

* * *

><p>The young woman watched the little boy's life fade away.<p>

Once he had lost the code, the person once known as an immortal lord was simply a child once again.

She wished she could numb that child's pain, as she had numbed the pain of so many lives she had extinguished.

But she would never use that Geass again.

She looked at the spread-winged symbol of her arm blankly.

The Code of the Geass.

"Congratulations, Nalika. You are now an immortal."

Nalika nodded quietly to V.V.'s praise.

"Now your job here is complete. Get rid of any witnesses."

"…Yes, Your Highness."

* * *

><p>"All citizens, please remain calm and prepare for evacuation."<p>

The announcement couldn't have been any less unnecessary. Raised to be obedient, the Directorate's scientists, geassholders and civilians stood in tense but orderly lines at the monorail station, protected by Directorate Guard.

With an ingrained discipline, they slowly stepped onboard the monorail line that would take them down one of the many escape tunnels of the directorate.

The unit of directorate guards beckoned some latecomers to hurry up. The train needed to go.

A small boy walked forwards, no different from one of the many young geassholders.

The guards walked forwards—he was dressed in a geassholder's uniform, a loose utilitarian tunic.

"Come on, we're about to launch! Hurry it up!"

The boy walked forwards—and then a sphere of reddish-purple light shot through them, filling the monorail.

With a tug, the boy yanked the pin of a hand grenade and threw it amid the frozen faces.

The Directorate Guards blinked. The kid was walking away.

"Kid, what are you—"

And then the hand grenade exploded.

Rollo walked on, towards the next monorail station.

* * *

><p>"Red Eagle, this is Overlord. There's an enemy pocket of resistance about 300 meters to your north. Remove them."<p>

"Roger."

Lieutenant General Bartley Asprius mopped his brow as he stuffed another fry into his mouth. The thirty-year old Britannian Army Officer ate to relieve stress—and after his time in Indochina, the slightly short but well-built man had put on quite a bit of weight to compensate for the loss of his hairline.

The command of the full force of such an elite branch of the Britannian force was an honor rarely given to a Lieutenant General. He knew his career relied on this, and the stress made his voice quiver slightly as he observed the battle.

And what a battle.

From the Britannian Armored Trailer inside Alamut, he observed a battle he had never seen before.

A battle underground. A battle fought only by infantry. The structure of this vast facility had never been intended for motor vehicles, and so the Queen's Rangers were being forced to fight without the advantage of Britannia's M-33's and artillery.

Not that they were doing badly.

Assisted by local troops, the Queen's Rangers were cutting deep gashes into the sides of the local terrorists, clearing the subterranean complex block by block.

_Still, what kind of advanced terrorist cell could possibly develop a complex city like this?_

* * *

><p>The Monorail control station was deserted when C.C. and the others arrived.<p>

Through this station, the Directorate could direct the monorails anywhere—from anywhere inside the directorate to the many escape points.

The many empty monorail bays told C.C. that the station's guards and operators had long since fled.

"I suppose we'll have to do it ourselves," Mai Mai chuckled.

The monorail control system was state-of-the-art. Only installed a year ago, the electric system used a system of complex routing computers to activate and deactivate routes, to routing and rerouting trains.

As such, C.C. had no idea how to use it.

Soraya sighed. "Sorry, I don't know much about computers."

"Of all the jobs I once took," Mai Mai remarked with a laugh, "the one job I never took was as a PC support worker."

Sen said nothing, but the fact that he didn't snap at Mai Mai implied that the former Mangudai also had no clue how to run the system.

Yunyun sighed as she turned to Soo Jin.

"Soo, any chance you have files on computer support?"

Soo paused for a moment as she activated her geass. A moment later, she nodded. "I have a copy of the old manual for this train. With this, I can probably activate the monorail and send all of you to any of the escape points."

C.C. nodded. "Get to it."

Sen, though, frowned at Soo Jin and said what everybody else was thinking.

"…Are you prepared for this?"

The monorail could not be activated from the monorail trains themselves, to prevent hijacking. The only control present was the emergency break.

If somebody activated a manual shutdown on the monorail computer, all the monorails could theoretically be stopped.

Meaning that somebody would have to stay behind to keep the monorail running and protect it from V.V..

Yunyun blinked. "No," she interjected bluntly, "You're coming with us, Soo."

Soo Jin nodded, expressionless. "It is my duty to guarantee your safety."

Even Mai Mai stopped smiling. "Lee Soo Jin. You have a life ahead of you. I'm an old man, near the end of my days. If you tell me how, I can run the monorail system.

Soo Jin shook her head. "There can be a thousand apprentices, but there are only eight Immortals. Your safety is prioritized over mine."

Yunyun stamped her feet petulantly. The former Chinese Noble could be childish at times, and this was one of those times. "That's an order, Soo!"

Yet Soo Jin remained steadfast.

C.C. said nothing. Soo Jin was clearly speaking the truth—having been Yunyun's bodyguard before she became an immortal, Soo Jin was known to obey no order but Yunyun's. If she would not even follow Yunyun's orders, she was likely already set in her decision.

"Yunyun. Soo Jin is doing this for you," C.C. said slowly as Yunyun looked to her for support. Yunyun glared at C.C., as if C.C. had just stabbed her in the back. She looked to Sen, who simply closed his eyes. "A Man has to do what a Man Has to do."

"Soo Jin is a Woman, Sen!"

Sen shuffled uncomfortably. "You know what I mean."

C.C. sighed. "Yunyun, you've only just become an immortal. Over your life, you'll see many people you know die. Of Old Age. Of disease. Of Murder. But you must remember of your duty. To protect 7 billion people. You have to let them go."

Even in her mind, it sounded like bullshit.

"As if you let go of Marianne's Death!"

C.C. froze.

The other immortals, too, fell silent. Even Yunyun stopped, aware that she had struck a blow too low.

"Soo Jin is staying behind, and we are going on that monorail," C.C. finally managed.

Nobody said anything until Soo Jin announced the activation of the monorail.

Soundlessly, Mai Mai and Sen stepped into the monorail. C.C. turned as she boarded the monorail.

Yunyun stood at the edge of the platform, looking back and forth from where C.C. stood to where Soo Jin waited.

Finally, she turned to C.C., expressionless.

"C.C., I'm staying."

"…No, you're not."

"Soo Jin won't be able to hold them off for long. I'm Immortal."

"Hence why you should be on board."

C.C. looked Yunyun in the eyes. There was no childish twinkle in her eyes—simply eyes that stared back unashamed. For perhaps a second, or a minute, or an hour, they stared at each other—and finally, C.C. looked away.

"Do as you will."

Yunyun broke into a rash grin as she rolled her robe sleeves back, clenching her fists. "Awesome. I'll kick V.V.'s ass for you."

C.C. said nothing as the Monorail door closed in front of her.

The other Immortals said nothing as they watched C.C. sit down.

They all sat silently as the monorail hissed through the darkness.

Yunyun turned around to Soo Jin.

"C'mon, Soo. Let's kick their asses."

Soo Jin said nothing.

"Why?"

Yunyun stared off into the receding lights of the monorail. "Remember back when we first met?"

Soo Jin nodded. Back in the day on that yacht when Yunyun was still Lady Sun Lei Yun.

"Remember what you promised me?"

On that day, Yunyun had fallen off the yacht, and Soo Jin had rescued her from drowning.

"Yes. I promised never to leave your side."

Yunyun grinned.

"I wanted to make sure you kept that promise."

"…Milady."

"Yes?"

"You are an idiot."

Yunyun laughed with embarrassment as she scratched her head.

"Heh…maybe you're right."

And, as Yunyun laughed, the faintest trace of a smile tugged at Soo Jin's lips.

* * *

><p>"Ey, Lantern."<p>

The Queen's Ranger glanced at his comrade as they moved cautiously through the directorate complex.

"Eh?" Lantern did not enjoy striking up conversations midbattle.

"Don't you think there's something wrong with these masks?"

"Yeah, they're stuffy as fuck."

"No…it's more like they make us so…anonymous."

"You shouldn't be looking for fame if you join the Rangers, Nimbus."

Nimbus shrugged.

"No, I feel it makes us kind of disposable. Like some kind of disposable gook, you know what I mean?"

"We're highly skilled disposable gooks."

"Yeah, but since when do elite guards work against superman? And with these masks, we don't even have the distinction of a face. It's like we're disposable plot characters to make the main characters look good."

"Like the Immortals."

"The Immortals?" Nimbus blinked inside his helmet, not that anyone outside would have noticed.

"The Persians deployed them as Cavalry. The idea was that no matter how many died, the King would replace the exact amount, regardless of cost, with exactly the same equipment."

"Gotta suck to be one of those Immortals."

"I read ya."

The facility they had entered seemed to be the control center of this massive terrorist complex's monorail system. It would be the job of Lantern, Nimbus and their cohorts to secure the monorail system and cut off all escape routes.

The atrium's lights were on, and the Rangers fanned out. Nimbus immediately made a quick estimate of the hall. On the other side, a group of steps led up into the second floor, where the atrium control booths were. The area seemed to be deserted, though it didn't bear any signs of combat.

Nimbus sighed with relief.

"Room seems clear…"

It was the wrong thing to say. A moment later, a single shape dropped right next to Nimbus. Before he or the other Rangers could react, a flash of silver separated his head from his shoulders.

The other Rangers instinctively raised their guns—and hesitated. Nimbus' assailant, some woman with an archaic-looking sword, was effectively standing in the middle of the rangers. If anyone missed in this environment, there would be a risk of friendly fire.

And Friendly Fire…isn't.

That moment of hesitation was a mistake. With the agility and efficiency borne of years of training, Soo Jin's _Jian_ cleaved through the gaps between armor plates as she leapt deftly between the confused Rangers. Some of the smarter ones abandoned their guns, drawing their combat knives and ballistic knives in preparation for close quarters combat.

Yet, unlike the Rangers, who were trained to use knives as a last resort in the world of firearms, Soo Jin's sword was her primary weapon.

If Soo Jin were to match them in firearms or barehanded combat, she would probably be the loser.

But if it came to bladed weapons, she was definitely superior.

With a gurgle, the last Ranger fell to the ground, clutching his throat as Soo Jin straightened up.

Gingerly, she wiped her sword on the body of that last Ranger. Unlike the civilized, censored deaths that came from firearms, death by a bladed weapon was far more primal—dismembered limbs oozed blood, and Soo Jin was aware of the blood that was on her face.

The bodies of eight Rangers lay around her in various pieces.

"Well done, Soo Jin," a voice called cheerfully from the entrance.

Soo Jin, who had been about to sheath her sword, immediately drew it again warily.

"Lord V.V.," she said, like a curse.

"Your skills are quite…exceptional," V.V. remarked, clapping his hands like a child who had just watched a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat. "Have you considered employing those skills as an immortal?"

Soo Jin said nothing. Behind V.V. stood a man in a red suit.

_No,_ Soo Jin realized, the suit was not red—the suit was initially black.

It was simply that the suit had been completely stained with blood.

The man's mouth showed a quaint smile, his eyes concealed by a pair of sunglasses. And, in his hands was what looked like—and, indeed was, a chainsaw that dripped what was clearly blood.

Somehow, Soo Jin knew that this man would not allow her to kill the Immortal Lord.

"Well, Soo Jin? I could allow you to keep your old Lord's Code."

"…Please stop trying to seduce my Apprentice, V.V."

Soo Jin and V.V. both turned in surprise.

_Didn't she agree to allow me to do the fighting?_

Yunyun, Immortal of the Kaminejima Thought Elevator, leapt down from the second floor, landing gracefully next to Soo Jin with a dangerous-looking smile.

"I'm sorry, I was just suggesting some better business opportunities," V.V. replied pleasantly, "but it seems like we have more guests."

Yunyun shrugged. "Aren't you the one intruding?"

"Perhaps. But I'm curious, Sun Lei Yun…did you stay behind for your apprentice? Why did you not flee like the rest of them?"

Yunyun smiled a bright smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I stayed for you."

V.V. laughed pleasantly. "Well, I'm a little flattered…but what would you want from me? I hardly think you're here to join me in my plan."

Yunyun's smile didn't alter for a moment. "That's right." Widening her stance, she raised her open palms in front of her. "Whatever your plan is, I'm going to end it right now!"

V.V.'s eyes narrowed. "Chinese Martial Arts, huh? How…quaint." He turned to the man behind him as he pulled out a light machine gun. "Uryu, take care of the apprentice. Don't worry about me."

"With pleasure," the red-suited man replied as, with a roar, the chainsaw revved itself into life as, with the same tranquil smile, he leapt at Soo Jin.

V.V. raised the assault rifle to his shoulder as he aimed at Yunyun.

The only problem was that she was no longer there. Backing away, he lowered the rifle as he looked up—just in time to see a heel descending towards him.

"Wha—"

He turned to the side—just in time. With a rush of air, the heel buried itself where his head would have been a moment ago. The impact of the kick was enough to knock V.V. off balance. Unfazed, Yunyun circled around V.V.

"Not bad for a kid," Yunyun grinned brashly. There were no more pleasantries in that smile anymore—simply sheer murderous intent.

V.V. shrugged, ignoring the frantic beat of his heart. "Don't say that about your elders. I'm about thirty years older than you, y'know."

"Heh, grow some facial hair before you lecture me about elders!" Seemingly without a windup, Yunyun lashed out with her left leg with a horizontal kick. Instinctively, V.V. raised the assault rifle—and was swept off his feet anyway by the force of the kick. The little boy flew a few feet before crashing against a pillar. The assault rifle, bent nearly ninety degrees, clattered uselessly by his side.

Yunyun twisted a braid of her hair contemptuously. "Fifty years, and you didn't even take a self-defense class?"

V.V. smiled. "My country isn't so plebian that I need to physically defend myself on a daily basis."

"Well aren't you a pampered little princeling."

"You're one to talk."

Yunyun sighed with the patience of a doting parent as she patted dust off her robe. "You don't get it, do you? Your mouth isn't going to do any good here. I'm done playing around. I'm going to end your plan right here and right now!"

And then she was right in front of him.

V.V. didn't even see her move.

_She was just playing before—?_

Even earlier, he had been defeated in two strikes. Now—

And then he felt a sledgehammer slam into his right shoulder. With a snap, he felt his rotator cuff tear—

—Before he could even move his left arm, another sledgehammer slammed into his arm. With a crack, and a gasp of pain the bone shattered, the bottom half of his humerus stabbing through the skin.

Like a machine, Yunyun methodically struck at his legs, sweeping them from under him and then shattering his hip bone with a crack like a gunshot.

Before he could take in a breath to scream, another hammer blow slammed into his chest, a jackhammer that drove the breath out of his body and impacted into his spleen, rupturing it instantly as he was thrown back against the pillar.

All martial arts are, at their roots a means for self-defense. Half of a martial art is the mindset, the discipline of controlling oneself. Someone who has been trained in martial arts has the discipline to never strike out with lethal force against an enemy.

But this was something else.

This was no longer the art of self-defense, but the art of killing.

Attacks intended not to defend oneself, but to kill, to maim, to injure.

This was martial arts in its most primal stage—one man making sure that another man will never, can never harm him, ever again.

Before V.V. could take another breath, a foot slammed into his windpipe, crushing the tube of cartilage with the ease of a car crumpling a garbage can.

Yunyun slipped out of her stance as she shook her numbed fists.

"Maybe I overdid it a little."

Each of those strikes had shattered bones—each and every one could have disabled a trained soldier, nevermind a little boy.

V.V.'s code would allow him to recover—but at this rate, it would take him at least half an hour before he would be able to move again.

With a contemptuous fist, she picked V.V. up by the throat. The kid was really light. His limbs flopped uselessly, disconnected by the force of her blows.

"Any last words you want to tell me before I break the rest of your bones?" It was honestly a rhetorical question—with his windpipe shattered and his lungs ruptured, V.V. wasn't capable of talking.

And so she could not have been more surprised when V.V. rasped, "Surprise."

And then she realized that there was no weight on the holster on her leg.

She felt something metallic jab against her chest—

And then, dropping V.V., she staggered back as, with a muffled bang, her own handgun fired once, twice, three times into her chest.

"Why—"

It should have taken a full half an hour for an immortal to recover from a mortal wound, at least ten minutes before V.V. could have had the ability to talk.

So why was he staggering up, wounded but clearly fit enough to stand?

And then, with a muffled mental impact, she saw the Code on V.V.'s palm.

The Codes of the Geass usually glowed a soft pink when it was trying to restore an Immortal's body. Strong ones, such as C.C's, glowed a little stronger.

V.V.'s was a dark, burning red.

And then, she suddenly realized what had happened to R.R. and Sasa.

"You—you took their codes?"

V.V. smiled. "Bingo. I don't need all of you to open the Sword of Akasha…all I need are your Codes."

It made perfect sense, honestly. If a Geass Code as compatible with a host, it was likely that it would be likely that any other code would be compatible with the host. After all, Yunyun had gotten her geass from Sen, and her Code from her predecessor, Nene.

And it seemed the combined codes enhanced V.V.'s Healing abilities as well.

She managed a painful smile as she stumbled backwards.

"Cute, cute…but can you find all of us? C.C. and the others are long gone by now."

V.V. laughed. "Well, keep thinking that…C.C. and the others aren't getting away. And look, neither is your apprentice."

* * *

><p>Lee Soo Jin neatly side-stepped another strike from the man with the chainsaw as she continued closing in.<p>

While her sword was well-made with the best modern materials, there was no way it would be able to block a chainsaw.

As such, she would have to make use of the unwieldy nature of the chainsaw to her advantage.

A weapon with such an irregular center of gravity would be powerful in swings and slashes, but it would have no merit as a stabbing weapon. As such, the stab, the most potent attack in sword-to-sword combat, was completely negated, and the man's long swings telegraphed his strikes.

But the man was hardly normal either. Despite all his misses, he maintained his happy smile, swinging the chainsaw with one hand.

Not that the misses weren't close—for all his leanness, the man clearly had great strength, using the chainsaw to readily block Soo Jin's feints with the lighter _Jian_.

Yet Soo Jin made up for her lack of physical strength with skill, honed over years and years of endless practice.

With each dodge, she inched closer and closer to the man, negating the range of his chainsaw and making it difficult for him to fight.

Closing in, she waited for that fatal opening that would end the fight—

—and then the opening showed itself. Swinging too hard, the man's chainsaw barely missed her head as the man struggled to bring it back under control—and then she heard a bang.

She turned—and saw Yunyun stagger, holding her chest.

"Milady—"

She caught the premonition just in time. Out of reflex, she raised her Jian—just as the chainsaw slammed onto it. The impact tore at her arm—just as she locked eyes with the man.

His smile was no longer angelic—instead, his mouth had been contorted into some imitation of a grin.

And his sunglasses were gone.

In his eyes were two Geass.

And then Soo Jin felt every single muscle in her body explode.

Geass are based within the mind and consciousness.

They cannot affect physical phenomena.

It is a physical impossibility that her limbs had exploded.

And yet Soo Jin could not deny the feeling—the pain that shot through every nerve imaginable told her that it was true.

Lee Soo Jin had been trained from childhood to resist torture; to fight everything from a random bandit to a special forces officer; to resist truth serums; to close her mind to interrogations and mind readings.

But to this Geass, she was helpless.

This Geass was surely one of absolute pain.

She screamed, shrieked as each of her million nerve cells exploded into flames.

The pain was so great that even her screams died away into a painful wheeze

The pain was so great, she barely felt anything when the chainsaw sheared through the Jian, and right through her arm.

Most researchers in the directorate believe that each Geass is a materialization of a wish.

A Geass that causes absolute pain—_what twisted person would have made a wish like that?_

Yet the man was not done. With a laugh, he swung the chainsaw across her legs, cutting those off too.

She felt herself fall to the ground—just as the chainsaw slashed through her eyes

It must have been a deliberately and carefully shallow cut, for anything deeper would have cut through her skull and put her out of her misery. As it was, she could merely writhe in the complete darkness.

She scrabbled on the ground with her remaining hand.

She had to protect the girl she had sworn to never leave—the girl she had sworn to always protect.

She felt her hand touch another hand. After so many years with her, it was impossible for her not to recognize it as the warm, beating hand of her charge, Lady Sun Lei Yun.

The last thing she heard was the sound of her Lady calling her.

The last thought she had before the darkness claimed her was relief that Lady Yunyun was safe.

* * *

><p>Yunyun stared blankly at the cold hand in her hands, carelessly separated by a slash of the chainsaw.<p>

Soo Jin's body twitched like a puppet that had lost its strings before finally laying still.

"…That was a little overdone, Uryu" V.V. managed. Even the immortal could only stare with shock at the remnants of a woman he had known for several years.

Looking up, Uryu smiled another angelic smile. "My bad, Milord. I'll finish the job now."

Yunyun barely heard the words as she stared at Soo Jin's body, mangled and cold.

"Soo Jin…get up."

The body made no response.

"…Can't you hear me? "

The body lay still, doing the only thing it could.

"I-I'm ordering you…"

"She can't hear you anymore," a pleasant voice said above her. She looked up at the red-suited man who smiled gently down at her.

"Don't worry. You'll see her again soon."

And then the chainsaw sheared through her neck.

In 1789, Dr. Joseph-Igance Guillotin proposed decapitation by beheading as the most humane and least painful methods of execution. Not long after, Surgeon Antoine Louis invented the eponymous device that bears Guillotin's name.

However, scientist today agree that a person's head will remain fully conscious for about 40 seconds, even after the head is removed from the body.

During this whole time, the brain is hyperconscious, deprived of the hormones that numb the pain of the loss of a limb—those are still in the body.

The average person only needed to suffer 40 seconds of this.

As an Immortal, Yunyun couldn't even take comfort in that.

"A…ahhh…"

Without even a diaphragm to blow air through her vocal cords, Yunyun could only manage a wheeze with what air remained.

"H…help me, Soo…"

Leaning down, Uryu picked the decapitated head up by the hair.

"Awww…she's kind of cute too."

Yunyun's head could only stare back, her mouth screaming a scream that could no longer be heard.

Uryu sighed and turned back to V.V., who was looking away.

"Milord!"

"Y-yes?"

"I kind of like my Geass, you know…it'd be a shame to give it away, and I don't really want to kill her either. Can I keep her like this?"

V.V. closed his eyes. "Just take the code."

Uryu sighed with a look of slight disappointment. "Fine, fine…"

The look that Yunyun gave her killer as he absorbed the code on her forehead was almost one of gratitude as the light vanished from her eyes.

* * *

><p>From the control booth, a Queen's Ranger glanced at V.V..<p>

"Milord, it seems like the terrorists managed to luck down the computers. We can no longer stop the monorail system."

V.V. smiled. "That's fine…there'll be a surprise waiting for them on the other end."

* * *

><p>The escape monorail tunnel ended in an old bunker. A few stacked boxes of cup noodles lay around, untouched, along with a few emergency supplies. C.C. looked at the survivors who left the monorail—Sen, Mai Mai, and Soraya.<p>

All that was left of the Geass Directorate.

Sen seemed to understand. "We've had worse before."

Mai Mai nodded. "People die, directorates rise and fall—but we Immortals will live on—must live on. We can rebuild in Khagan."

"We can still do it," Soraya added helpfully.

And they were right. V.V. and Charles had to be stopped.

"Fair enough. Let's move."

The bunker door to the outside was propped open, and sand was blowing in from the outside.

"Looks like we're not the first ones to escape," Sen noted.

Mai Mai laughed dryly. "The monorail operators fled, after all."

Night had long since given way to day outside. Walking up to the bunker door, Sen grabbed it and pushed it wide, and sunlight flooded in. For a moment, all of them winced, blinded by the morning sun—and then, as their eyes acclimated, they gaped.

The ground outside was filled with bodies—some directorate apprentices; scientists; a few Directorate Guards—and, most ominously, the monorail operators. A few vehicles, presumably intended for the escape, lay smoldering around them.

"What—"

And then C.C. yanked Soraya out of the way as something whizzed past, striking the bunker door with a loud clang.

Cursing, Sen raised his rifle and fired a few shots. "Snipers! Get back in!"

But it was more than just snipers. A moment later, something shot through the air with a whine, colliding with the bunker interior. A millisecond later, the bunker exploded into flames as a Britannian Helicopter pointed its nose at the immortals.

"Get Down!" With a quick yank, Sen pushed Mai Mai behind one of the destroyed vehicles, an old Jeep as C.C. and Soraya did the same behind an old truck. Machine gun bullets whined past them or struck the vehicles with metallic clangs.

"Fuck," Sen muttered.

"The kid got us," Mai Mai noted cheerfully.

It was clear that V.V.'s plan had been well planned out. To have left military units at the ends of all the escape tunnels would be a costly procedure. The Immortals only had light weapons and almost no ammunition.

If there was a bright side, it was that these troops were not Queens' Rangers, but regular Britannian Army forces.

But with tanks and a helicopter, the Army would be more than enough for four people with light weapons.

C.C. glanced around—a tank shell exploded near the downed jeep, showering Sen and Mai Mai with earth. She glanced at Sen and Mai Mai. "Alright, I'm going to make a distraction while you two run for it!"

Sen looked at her levelly. "There's no way you'll recover before those guys take you down. You're going to be captured. Are you prepared for that?"

C.C. nodded. "Better two Immortals stay free then all three of us get captured. Plus I know Charles. I might be able to work something out."

The chances of escaping still weren't very high. But it was better than nothing.

"Milords."

C.C., Sen and Mai Mai turned, in spite of the bullets whizzing around them at Soraya.

"I might have a way for us to get away."

C.C. instantly knew.

"…You're going to use your geass?"

Soraya smiled a strained smile. "It's about time I did."

"You're going to die."

"I know."

C.C. felt herself hesitate once more. Despite the fact that they had only met a month ago, Soraya was still C.C.'s apprentice.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better," Soraya said slowly, "I'm about to die anyway."

And it was then that she removed her hand from her stomach, revealing the bloody stain on her directorate uniform.

It was not a fatal wound, but it was a mortal one.

"I'm not going to be able to follow you guys the whole time anyway," Soraya continued.

Mai Mai frowned. "…we could slow down for you."

"…It's better than dying in that c-cave." Soraya's face was looking decidedly white.

"Please, C2…I don't have a lot of time."

And, finally, C.C. nodded.

_Once more, I'm condemning another friend to her death_.

She felt like she should have said something else—some kind of last blessing, or some kind of apology—but nothing came out.

* * *

><p>With an effort, Soyara propped herself up as she prepared to activate her Geass. She felt the wind rush past her as bullet after bullet whizzed by.<p>

She closed her eyes.

She remembered that day when C.C. had found her.

The Middle Eastern Federation is an uncomfortable mix of Persian, Turkic and Arab Cultures. Each of the Khanates, Sultanates and Emirates that are the basis of the Federation are separated by an intricate web of loyalties over Religion, ethnicity, clan and region—and though they showed a united face to outsiders, wars between nations and ethnic groups were quite common.

Her village had been Persian and Shi'ite, in a region dominated by Sunni Arabs. It was a wonder they had survived so long peacefully. When the Shah handed over parts of the Arabia to the Emirates, the village lost its own protector.

It was C.C. who found her, in the ruins of her destroyed home.

It was C.C. who had given her a new name, a new identity.

C.C. gave her a Geass, a reason to live.

In a way, this was a better way to die than any.

"Heh," Soraya chuckled as her geass activated.

Instantly, a sphere of purplish-red light expanded—past C.C. or Sen or Mai Mai, past the tanks and snipers, even though the helicopter that waited in the skies—just as a sniper's bullet impacted into her head.

"Heh…"

And instantly, every man and woman in the reach of the Geass died of a headshot.

A Geass of enforced Empathy—a geass that synchronizes the nervous system of the subject with the original.

A geass that makes everyone feel what the user feels.

And what Soraya's nervous system perceived at that moment was death.

Of course, no bullet penetrated their foreheads.

But it didn't matter that there was no actual bullet.

Each tank commander, each sniper, each pilot's nervous systems realized that they were dying.

And, as such, each of their nervous systems shut down.

Each of them, in their own minds, "died."

And when their minds died, their bodies died with them.

Without a pilot, the Helicopter simply hovered in the air aimlessly.

Tanks hummed on, unmoving.

And the last of the soldiers slumped to the ground, physically unharmed but clearly dead.

"C'mon, C.C., we may be able to get one of these jeeps working again."

C.C. ignored Mai Mai as she walked over to the dead body of her apprentice for a month.

"Thank you," she murmured, as the morning sun shone brightly down.

Like a rainstorm slowly ending, the sound of gunfire slackened, and then petered out as the last few defenders were flushed out, and an eerie silence filled the cave.

Exhausted Rangers wandered through the streets like the dying among the dead.

And, as the haze of bloodlust or the blankness of efficiency gave way, each of them could simply stare at the bodies around them.

Men, women children, the elderly.

Many of the Queen's Rangers had fought against ridiculous odds in ridiculous places, from the top of the Himalayas to the caves of Afghanistan.

They were Soldiers, Veterans, Warriors, Patriots.

But, when many of them looked back as they lay dying on some distant battlefield or died surrounded by friends and family, many of them would remember the day that they had come to become. Murderers.

* * *

><p><strong>4 Days Later<strong>

**Tehran, Kingdom of Persia, Middle Eastern Federation**

"The Coffee here is disgusting," C.C. muttered.

"Could be worse," Sen replied.

"Heheh, you guys don't know bad-tasting coffee," Mai Mai giggled.

The three Immortals said nothing as they finished their cups of coffee. Each of them had changed their appearances. With dyed-black hair, an urban jacket and a pair of sunglasses for anonymity, C.C. could well have passed as one of the many tourists or the city's urban elite, enjoying the night life. Sen, had shaved his long hair and unkempt beard, while Mai mai was now dressed like one of the many Somali traders and merchants who frequented Tehran.

"I just got word from my contacts in Britannia," Sen reported. "It seems like the Atlantis Directorate in Bermuda is occupied now by V.V.'s forces. Same goes with my directorate in Khagan."

Mai Mai sighed. "So it seems like we are wanderers without a home."

Once again, all three sipped at their coffee, three young people who had outlived all the chess-playing old men around them.

Mai Mai looked up from his newspaper. "So…what do we do?"

Sen, as well, looked to C.C., who blinked.

"Me? Why do I decide?"

"Because you're the leader of the Geass Directorate," Sen replied.

"A Geass Directorate of Three People," C.C. pointed out.

Sen shrugged. "Rules are rules."

"Well, then, we split up. V.V. and Charles will be searching for us now—it'd be bad to put all our eggs in one basket, right?"

Sen sipped from his cup of coffee. "We'll remain in hiding until V.V. is defeated. As long as he can't get all of us, he can't open up the sword."

Mai Mai nodded. "A solid plan. I suppose I could visit my great-grandchildren in Johannesburg…it'll be a little awkward after I faked my death to them, though."

Sen thought about it. "I'll return to Mongolia. The Chinese Federation isn't very fond of Britannia, after all."

C.C. considered returning to her old Thought Elevator in the English Republic, and decided against it. "I suppose I'll just wander a bit…"

For a moment, they each sipped their cups of coffee once again.

"So…this will probably be the last time we will see each other for a long while."

"Yep."

"Well…then I suppose it's farewell."

And, with that, each of them stood up out of their chairs, strangers once more.

C.C. looked up at the clear sky.

Everything had changed so fast. Marianne had died, and V.V. had turned against the Directorate.

she sighed as she looked back at the empty table. She hadn't told Sen and Mai Mai, but she would go back to Britannia.

To visit Marianne's grave.

Perhaps she would find her guidance there.

Over this week, she had lost everything.

She had lost her apprentice, her allies, her base, and her only friend.

She had went back to zero.

In a way, though, it was a new start.

C.C. smiled as she melted into the Persian Crowd.

Something told her that perhaps, just perhaps, it wouldn't be quite so bad.


	5. 1 Year Ago: The End of the Mandate

**-The End of the Mandate-**

"_蒼天已死 - The Heavens have Perished，_

_黃天當立 - The Yellow Sky shall rise_."

-First two Stanzas of the Yellow Scarf Rebellion during the later Han (three kingdoms) period

* * *

><p><strong>Note: A sketch of the characters can be found at (remove spaces) ht tp :  / thejimmierustler . deviantart . com / art / F-ZE-Chinese-Federation-Characters-296050351**

**I'm not the best of artists, so pardon. Some other pieces of art that I drew can be found on HeavyValor's page.**

* * *

><p><strong>January 23rd, 2009 A.T.B., First Day of the First Month [1]<strong>

**Luoyang, the Vermillion Forbidden City**

**Chinese Empire, Chinese Federation**

Chinese New Year easily dwarfs the farce of a spectacle those who abide by the Britannian or European calendars call the New Year. Dwarfed by Christmas in Europe and St. Darwin's Day in February in Britannia, the silly events that follow the solar New Years in the West are small festivals compared to the Fifteen days of the Chinese New Year.

The Lunar New Year is the only time for many workers to return to their hometowns, meet with their families, and relax from a year of labor.

And with this big break comes the biggest celebration of the Far East.

The streets of the capital were filled with the bursts of firecrackers, the clanging of cymbals and gongs, the buzzing, joyous klaxon of countless guan (a type of oboe made of wood or bamboo. The word literally means Pipes) and the whistling melodies of flutes.

Eager for the extra revenue, every inn, restaurant, tea houses and brothel was filled with shopowners lauding their wares. Though there were no skyscrapers in the imperial city, the distant gleaming skyscrapers in nearby cities also gleamed with festive red and gold.

Cars and trucks were clearly going nowhere—the streets were choked with countless parades and dramas, from fighting rings to traditional lion dances to what would be equivalent to western circuses. Chinese philosophers, Tibetan mystics, Vietnamese Artisans, Korean researchers, Indian scientists, Thai Businessmen and Tajik prospectors haggled, argued and debated verbally in teahouses and physically in bars.

Men and women in both traditional Hanfu and more modern attire paraded through the streets, relaxing for the first time in months.

Nobody noticed the men in longcoats and hats who seemed to wander aimlessly.

Nobody noticed the glints of black metal that flashed from some of the store stalls.

Nobody noticed the battle that was soon to unfold.

* * *

><p>Within the vast walls of the Vermillion Forbidden City, a festival was going on too. Lords, Civil Officials, Military Officals, Eunuchs and Scholars congratulated each other for getting through another year.<p>

In this swirling crowd of robes and suits, it was far too easy to lose a four year old girl, Li Xingke decided grimly.

"Your highness! Your highness!"

At fifteen, Xingke was fairly tall for his age, with a face that most people would consider handsome concealed behind shoulder-length hair. The ceremonial Jian he wore at his side still seemed a little large. With difficulty, he managed to spot a flash of white hair. Excusing himself as he elbowed through the crowd, he finally managed to get close enough to the petite little girl that was the 37th Princess of China.

Princess Jiang Lihua was tiny, even for her age. Her most striking feature was her red eyes and white hair, the hallmarks of albinism. In Chinese culture, where white is the color of death, albinism is treated with fear and ostracism. The relatively faded look of the youngest princess' (nevertheless luxurious) clothes showed her social status among the countless children that came out of the Imperial Harem.

The princess's eyes immediately lit up as Xingke came into view, and she ran (rather, waddled in her rather large robe) towards Xingke.

"Xingke, there are so many people here!"

Xingke smiled warmly. "Yeah…it's the same outside."

The Princess' eyes widened as she tugged on Xingke's robe. "The outside? What are they doing outside? Tell me!"

Xingke felt a tug of guilt. Like most other princes and princesses raised in the Vermillion City, Jiang Lihua had never stepped outside of the city's walls. For her, what people such as Xingke saw as something trivial was something amazing, something as inaccessible as the Forbidden City for those who had never entered.

"They're celebrating the New Year too," Xingke explained. "Every year, they hold parades that go from the gates to the Imperial Square. There are vendors selling cheap foods or toys for children, and there are displays on street corners too."

At this point, the Princess' eyes were as wide as saucers from wonder, and she was almost leaping up and down in excitement.

"I want to go to a parade or buy food from the vendors!"

Xingke smiled ruefully. "Your highness, I'm sure the food from the vendors is inferior to what you eat everyday. And you have dancers everyday at meals—"

"But the dancers are always doing the same thing, and the food is boring! I want to be in a parade!"

Xingke sighed. "I wish I could show you too. Maybe someday I will." He wasn't sure that the second part was true—it was already too much that he was the caretaker of a princess, even if it was a minor one like Lihua.

"But I want to go now!" the Princess didn't seem to be blaming Xingke, but her frustration was apparent.

Xingke looked away.

_Why didn't they teach me how to deal with this?_

When he had been adopted into the Imperial Guard Corps, he had found out how to fight, how to kill a man, how to use any weapon or shoot someone with a gun. Somehow, they hadn't taught him how to make the tiny princess happy.

Jiang Lihua was not even that much of a hassle compared to the other princes and princesses. She trusted Xingke and wasn't as rude to a commoner such as himself. But when she was sad, Xingke often had no idea how to cheer her up.

"Maybe another day?"

"But I want to see I want to see I want to see—"

"The balcony should be open today."

Xingke and the Princess both stopped and turned around as they heard a voice behind them—and then Xingke quickly bowed.

"Your Highness, I apologize for my rudeness!"

The Chinese were the first to come up with the concept of Civil Service Exams, and most of the bureaucratic positions of the Chinese Government were traditionally delegated to the top-scoring taker of a civil service exam. That third Prince Jiang Weilin managed to obtain the title through the civil service was a testament to his talent. Handsome, skilled in combat and a charismatic diplomat, he had always been Xingke's role model—and now his role model was smiling at him.

"Enough, enough with the formalities, it's the new year's." With a casual grin, the third prince put a hand on the princess's white head.

"And my dear sister seems to want to watch the parade."

* * *

><p>The two royals and a bewildered Xingke walked through the crowd of dignitaries, Prince Weilin stopping every few moments to shake the hands of some diplomat or to engage in the traditional greeting (a hand wrapped around a fist, held at a 90 degree straight line to the body). The Imperial guard stood aside as they had never done with the Princess alone. Finally, they found themselves at a balcony overlooking the square below.<p>

"Here we are!" With a smile, Prince Weilin lifted the princess over the railings to watch the parade going on below.

Xingke looked around. There did not appear to be any guards nearby, and none of the crowd below seemed to see them—this balcony seemed relatively obscure.

Xingke took a glance at the princess—squinting to see each individual, she stared enviously at the crowd below as they cheered on two "tigers" fighting for a prize for their crews, a cabbage stuffed with money.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

It took Xingke a moment to realize that the Prince's question was aimed by him. Stiffening, Xingke nodded immediately.

"Yes, your highness."

The prince, though, didn't seem to be staring at the parade, but at the urban sprawl beyond.

"If only it was this beautiful outside of the imperial city."

Xingke said nothing. He knew that prosperity in many of the rural cities was dangerously low, but he didn't want to trip any verbal landmines.

The Prince seemed to be aware of Xingke's nervousness.

"What's your name, bodyguard?"

"Li Xingke, your highness."

"The Eunuchs. I'm talking about the Eunuchs, Li Xingke."

Xingke froze. That the Prime Minister would say something so brazen.

The Chinese court is divided into two sections—the Emperor's private life, in the Inner Court, and the Emperor's public life, in the Outer Court. The Outer Court is dominated by officials who have passed the Civil Service Exam—the traditional Mandarin Scholars, the Ministers, the Civil and Military Officials, all of whom have certifications.

The Inner Court, on the other hand, is dominated by the Harem and the Eunuchs who control the Harem. Eunuchs, posing no reproductive threat to the emperor's libido, maintained most of the Emperor's private life and arranged the harem.

The Outer Court generally holds the Eunuchs in contempt—while the Outer Court is made out of individuals who have distinguished themselves in exams, the only requirement to obtain a rank in the Inner Court is to, quite literally, have no balls.

Of course, there have been good Eunuchs. Zheng He, China's greatest explorer, was himself a Eunuch, and many Eunuchs have proved devotedly loyal to their charges. The loyal Eunuch represented the will of the Emperor and served as a counterbalance to the traditional Confucian Mandarin and a policy of isolationism that contributed to China's technological inferiority prior to the Japanese Invasion during the Second Pacific War.

But the general unstated opinion was that the current Eunuchs that controlled the palace did not fit into that role.

Prince Weilin sighed. "It's obvious, Li Xingke, that China has no Emperor. It only has its Eunuchs."

Oversexed, overfed and sick, the Yong'an Emperor had been confined in the Palace for most of his life, with only Eunuchs relaying his "orders" to the outer court.

"The Governors are rebelling. Our revenue is falling, there are civil wars going on, and all the Eunuchs do is build new palaces, amass more wealth."

The tone of anger in the prince's voice was unmistakable.

"Even as we speak, our forces are fighting a losing battle in Indochina without reinforcements, because the Imperial Army is in the Eunuchs' pockets. We buy expensive Britannia products instead of advancing our own production capacity because the Eunuchs receive kickbacks. Our army is underequipped, our commanders corrupt. And yet, we ministers simply sit back and drink, drink until we forget how weak we are."

Xingke could feel fear, even as he felt the same indignation. The Eunuchs were known for being paranoid. Why was this prince telling this to him?

The Prince turned to Xingke. "Li Xingke…if and when you are strong enough to make a difference, would you?"

Xingke nodded. "Yes. Yes I would."

The Prince smiled enigmatically as he glanced at the Princess, where she was watching the parade with a mix of amazement and wistfulness.

"My sister has a good protector."

Xingke felt pride well up inside him, and he smiled eagerly.

"You've always been my role model, your highness!"

Prince Weilin smiled. "That's reassuring. Should I fail, Li Xingke, I entrust my sister and the future of this country to you."

"Forgive my rudeness, your highness, but what—"

The Prince turned to leave—and turned around one more time. "Take my sister away from here. It's best she doesn't see what happens next."

And, suddenly, Li Xingke was aware of the men in suits that stood behind every pillar, behind the walls, waiting.

Noticing the Prince's departure, Princess Lihua turned around and smiled as she waved. "Bye, big brother Weilin!"

Prince Jiang Weilin grinned his enigmatic grin once more as he waved at the Princess—and then he was gone, the men in suits following him silently.

Xingke watched him go as the Princess continued to wave. _What was he talking about?_

* * *

><p>One of the men in suits glanced at the Prince. "Your highness, what was that?"<p>

Prince Jiang Weilin shrugged with a smile. "Just a little pep talk of sorts. For me. Are we ready?"

The man in the suit nodded. With a shrug, he removed the suit, revealing the bulletproof vest underneath. "As ready as ever, on your highness' mark."

The Prince smiled as he glanced at the men with him. Including those guarding the perimeter, they were only three hundred men—miniscule compared to the armies that had fought over china for generations before.

But three hundred was enough.

"Let's go. For the Emperor."

* * *

><p>In front of the closed gates of the Vermillion Forbidden City, tourists, both from the Federation and beyond, posed next to red-armored imperial guards and took pictures of the many monuments donated by the rulers of the Federation's many client states. Federation tourists fought and tooth and claw with vendors as tourists from the EU and Britannia happily enjoyed the scenery, blissfully unaware of how much they had been overcharged for their Terra Cotta Soldier T-shirts[2]<p>

Nobody noticed when the vendors of the carts closest to the gates walked away.

They did notice when a delivery truck near the gates suddenly revved into action. Skidding through a crowd of shocked tourist, the truck turned toward the gates and charged, like a bull in the ring.

The Imperial Guards could only react in shock as the truck slammed into gates—and then erupted into a conflagration of dirty black smoke and flames.

In the ringing silence, those who had not been knocked over stared at the gates. Those monolithic gates of the Forbidden City, forever blocking the machinations of the court from view, were now destroyed, bent and wrenched from their hinges. Beyond, the impeccably kept white marble and bright flowers of the eternally-green palace garden seemed to beckon.

The guards began picking themselves up from the ground, their ears ringing—just as they were beaten back to the ground by a group of men in long coats.

With shrugs, they removed their coats to reveal Green Chinese Army uniforms and light armor.

The Imperial Guards, dressed in red ceremonial armor, struggled to respond effectively—most of them were simply wielding ceremonial rifles and spears. Firing a few desperate shots, they retreated within the gates.

Those who were not already fleeing the scene stared at the battle unfolding before them.

The Imperial Guard against the Imperial Army—there was clearly only one explanation for this.

A Coup.

* * *

><p>The blast sent a peal of smoke and noise up that nearly knocked Li Xingke off his feet. Instinctively, he ran over and scooped the princess from the balcony in an attempt to shield her from any debris. Luckily, he felt nothing strike him as he rolled to a stop.<p>

He looked at the Princess. At the moment, she looked a little too shocked to cry.

As he picked the princess up onto her feet and dusted her off, he heard the faint sound of firecrackers.

Yet these cracks were not the high-pitched, snaps of firecrackers, but vicious, snarling cracks.

The sound of gunfire.

"Take my sister away from here. It's best she doesn't see what happens here next."

Prince Weilin's words suddenly came back to Xingke.

_Was the Prince behind this?_

He needed to get the Princess to safety. The sounds of gunfire were close now, along with the metal clash of melee weapons.

_The main hall._

The assembled officials were likely feasting in the main hall—to protect them, the Imperial Guard would likely be heading there.

"Your Highness, it's not safe here!"

Scooping up the Princess, Xingke ran (or, more correctly, tumbled) down the stairs through the doorway they had entered. There was a garden outside—Xingke had been here before. But somehow, the scenery this time was ruined by the Imperial Guard currently slumped into the pond.

The fact that he was coloring the pool red didn't help either.

Xingke considered stopping to help the man, but he, like the rest of the Imperial Guard, exist to protect those in the court. His responsibility was protecting the princess.

Covering the princess' eyes, Xingke ran past the body, through the sounds of battle.

* * *

><p>"The gates are clear, your highness." An army officer reported as he stepped gingerly over the body of a guard.<p>

Prince Jiang Weilin nodded. "Makes sure the gates remain secure, Adjutant Nguyen. As long as we can hold the perimeter, we have a clear shot at the Eunuchs."

Adjutant Nguyen saluted as he distastefully spat at a body of an imperial guard.

"Traitors."

"…Don't. They are simply doing their jobs."

When Jiang's grandfather and Xin'an Emperor Jiang Jieshi[3] had rescued the last Princess of China from oncoming Japanese forces in the Second Pacific War under the orders of Prime Minister Sun Yat-Sen, he had faced opposition from the Imperial Guard. But it was the future Emperor's actions that had allowed the Chinese Federation to stand tall against the Japanese.

He regretted these deaths—but for the future of China, they needed to step aside.

Slowly, Weilin and the soldiers with him walked to the end of the entry hall. Without hesitation, Weilin flung the door open.

"Well, shit," one of the coup officers muttered.

The stone steps that led up to the Imperial Court were already clogged with Imperial Guardsmen.

"This is going to be a mess," Nguyen muttered as he flipped the safety off his assault rifle—just as Weilin's hand moved in front of him, preventing him from moving.

Pikes and assault rifles were carefully arrayed in formation, a formidable wall that challenged anyone who closed in.

But somebody who looked closely would notice the wet patches on some of the guardsmen's robes, or the way each spear and gun barrel seemed to tremble.

The forbidden Army once consisted of the most elite of the Chinese Army. Those inside were taken from their divisions, men of officer caliber who underwent the harshest training. The best students from China, from Kazakhstan, from Mongolia, from Kerala once studied and trained for most of their lives for a chance to be part of the Imperial Guard. They were the strongest, the most loyal, the most disciplined, and they were rewarded as such.

These guards were not those men.

Between the Inner Palace, dominated by Eunuchs, and the Outer Palace, dominated by the Civil Court, there is very little power exchange. The Eunuchs hold no legal power over the court, and the court's policies cannot affect the lifestyle of their sovereign, in the Inner court. The Inner Court's duty is to administrate the Emperor, the Outer Court's duty is to administrate the nation. In order for the Inner court to control the outer court, therefore, members of the outer court must be convinced, in one way or another, to follow the wishes of the inner court.

Assassination is, of course, possible, but it is a risky move, and easy to trace. Should an assassination fail (and even succeed), there will be an awareness that somebody is pulling the strings.

Coercion and Intimidation are also factors. However, there are those whose loyalties are much stronger than their fears. If Intimidation fails, its failure will be made public. If it succeeds, it will only last as long as the target's enmity is overpowered by his or her fear. Should things fall apart and the fear is removed, the intimidated will willingly turn on his master.

The best position is bribery. A bribe can be said to be a simple gift exposed, and it develops positive relations between client and employer that may eventually come to breed loyalty.

The rank of Imperial Guard, it turns out, is the perfect position. An Imperial Guard earns many times the pay of the combat infantryman, and the palace, theoretically the safest place in all of China, shouldn't see much action. In fact, much of the Imperial Guard, with its stylized armor and archaic weaponry, exists only as a backup should an assailant get through the army outside. An Imperial Guard is a well-paid man whose job carries little risk.

The men in red who stood in front of the Prince were not Imperial Guards, but simply petty men who, through their connections with the High Eunuchs, had found their way into what they thought was an easy road to retirement.

And yet, Weilin knew, even a cornered dog will bite back. If these men were forced into a fight, they would fight for their lives, trained or not.

Calmly, he walked past his bewildered troops as he slowly ascended the stone steps, calling with a loud voice.

"Third Prince Jiang Weilin, Prime Minister to the Yong'an Emperor, demands an audience!"

The ranks of imperial guardsmen wavered but stood firm as their officer, a man holding a handgun, stepped forwards with a shiver.

"S-step back!"

The officer leveled his handgun at the Prince as he continued to ascend the hundreds of stone steps. The two sides stared in tense silence.

"I m-mean it! Step back, or I'll shoot!"

The officer's trembling fingers tightened on the trigger as the prince closed in.

_Should I shoot_?

The officer had never expected to be in this position. He was merely a soldier in the capital who had helped the Eunuchs change a few records in the equipment records bureau.

He knew the Prime Minister was a skilled combatant.

_But the Eunuchs will kill me if I step aside!_

But if he didn't move, the Prime Minister would kill him.

_Shoot him, and you'll have crushed the rebellion!_

_He has a sword that he hasn't even drawn, you have a gun!_

_I can't shoot the Prince!_

_It's do or die!_

_I don't want to—_

_DO IT—_

The officer closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Where the Prime Minister had stood, there was merely a stone step.

_Huh—_

And then a poker of icy fire pierced into his leg.

With a scream, he fell to the ground as he clutched his leg where the ceremonial Jian had pierced his leg. He felt a shadow fall over him, and he looked up through his pain—right at the metal blade, still caked by his blood.

"On account of your bravery, I spare your life," Jiang Weilin said with a voice that could have frozen water.

He turned to the rest of the Imperial Guards, who stared at their commanding officer with indecipherable expressions.

"Is anybody else prepared to fight for the Eunuchs?"

Slowly, one of the guardsmen stepped back. And then another. And then another. And finally, the crowd of guardsmen split like the red Sea.

Prince Weilin turned back to his men.

"Well, it seems that these gentlemen were our welcoming party."

* * *

><p>It was in a scene of near panic that Li Xingke and Princess Jiang Lihua entered the feast hall.<p>

The blast at the gate had long since put a hold on the many feasts that were going on inside the court, and the festive atmosphere in the main hall had long since been replaced by nervousness.

Civil Officials in Black Hanfu and Military Officials in Red Hanfu milled about, some simply sitting at their allotted chairs and others whispering among themselves.

"There, there, I'm sure our Imperial Guard have managed to suppress these rebels," the loud reedy voice of High Eunuch Lu Mang rang through the halls. Having lost access to the hormones produced by the testes before puberty, Eunuchs go through several physical changes. For one, they no longer grow facial hair. Their voices remain high, like that of a child[4]. Their bodies favor a rounded shape, and, unusually, the lack of limiting hormones means that they grow to unusually tall heights. Lu Mang, who led the Eunuchs, carried all these hallmarks. At 52 years of age, his voice sounded like that of a child.

That high voice concealed his nervousness.

For all the confidence he projected, the fact was that he had no idea what was going on. Save for the guards with him in the hall, the rest were engaged in battle with the coup forces.

Yet, he reassured himself, the Imperial Guard were in force outside the courts. There was no way that the coup forces would be able to cross the steps. He had yet to hear anything from the audience hall as well.

Yes, perhaps there were fewer of them than he imagined—

With a bang, the hall doors flew open.

With a collective gasp, the occupants of the hall, officials, servants, guards and entertainers turned as one to the sound.

"Lu Mang, I place you under arrest for treason against the Chinese Federation!"

There was a murmur of shock as prince Jiang Weilin walked in, his hair unbound as he walked past the shocked Civilian and Military officers who spread apart to allow him through.

For a moment, Lu Mang simply froze, his face contorted in fear.

The Prime Minister.

He should have known that the Prince had wanted to plan a coup. After all, he had made peace with Britannia to allow Chinese troops back to the Capital.

What should I do?

He looked around. There didn't seem to be many troops with the Prince—generally Army officers, some of them seemingly bearing wounds. His Imperial guards outnumbered them.

Moreover, most of the Officials here owed their jobs to him.

He took heart. _I can still do this._

"Treason? If there is anybody guilty of treason, it would be you, Third Prince. You turn your sword against the capital, against your Emperor, and you accuse me of treason? You, who lead a military coup right into our venerable institution?"

The Prince's expression did not change as he walked closer. Lu Mang quietly moved his chair backwards for a quick escape.

"Treason? I was not the one who ordered the deaths of the Crown Prince Taizi and any man, Royalty or not, who oppose your rule!"

"That was the decision of the Emperor against a traitor, like you, who plotted against him!"

"The Emperor? The man you have sealed inside the palace, without ever having even seen his son?"

Prince Weilin turned to the civil officials, military officials and dukes.

"Tell me. Since Lu Mang replaced High Eunuch Liao, how many of you have spoken to the Emperor? How many of you have seen him?"

Lu Mang froze. The guilty agreement that the crowd showed wasn't to his favor.

"Fourth Princess Hualin, have you ever seen our father? Have you, Eight Prince Xueliang?"

Silence followed. Lu Mang turned to the guard officer next to him and made a sign. Quietly, several guard officers began to creep into the crowd.

"I, the Prime Minister and third prince, confess that I have never once spoken to my father, the Emperor directly. Everything has come through Lu Mang and the other High Eunuchs. Through Gao Hai, through Cai Lishi, or through Xia Wang, or the others. I am starting to wonder if perhaps Lu Mang was in fact my father, the Emperor."

"Defaming the Emperor, how dare you—"

"And look what has happened since that time. As the subordinate owes respect and honor to the superior, the superior must reciprocate, or the system of mutual respect between king and subject are broken. Today, the Chinese Federation is weak. We have lost the trust of our citizens in the Philippines and Annam. Even now, Britannia comes closer and closer to our shores as our armies, abandoned, fight on desperately. You, General Huang, know this. As do you, General Kim."

Quietly and unobtrusively, the Guard officers squeezed through the crowd.

"Our allies and dependent states no longer trust us. Today, our trade with Korea is dwarfed by Korea's trade with Japan. India vies for independence, as it wages a genocidal war against its muslims. And we need not look further than our own borders. Our district governors rule as Warlords, just as they did before the Xin'an emperor subdued them in the Northern Campaign. General Cao in Liaodong has driven out our imperial inspectors.

Our people, meanwhile, are driven to poverty. Minister of Revenue, I am sure you remember the times that the Eunuchs have compelled you to alter the revenue record to support kickback after kickback.

Minister of Justice, how many innocent men do you execute everyday under the behest of the Eunuchs?

Ministry of Works, what works? I have inspected the roads you have built along Xuzhou, and on a rainy day my car cannot even drive out of the swamp you men made with shoddy materials."

The Prince looked around.

"I am not here to share blame. I am not here to talk about our problems, or whatever crimes we may have committed, but how we can remit. And how we can remit, now, is to overthrow these men, or what could pass as men, these Eunuchs—"

"Enough!" Loud and shrill, Lu Mang's voice cut off Prince Weilin midspeech. Skilled in politics, Lu Mang could tell that the crowd was slowly turning against him. If he was to survive, he needed to stop this immediately.

"You voice crimes against the Imperial Throne and blaspheme the office you are pledged to. A trial is not necessary for a man who has clearly voiced his traitorous intentions! Guards!"

From their positions, four guard officers drew their sabers, surrounding the Prince.

Lu Mang froze as he felt the prince's eyes on him—cold, opaque eyes that showed no love, no hatred, no mercy. "So you will fight?"

Looking around, Lu Mang stood as tall as he could. "Go! Kill him!"

One officer raised his saber—and then doubled back as a foot lashed onto his wrist as he drew back for a slash. With a clatter, the saber fell to the ground as the Prince lashed out with his fist, a fist that impacted into the officer's unprotected neck. He collapsed to the ground, clutching his throat, as the three other officers charged.

Lu Mang looked around desperately. Most of the crowd was staring at the battle. If he ran right now—but if he fled after his men won, he would lose the respect of the officials.

Compelled by his social obligations, Lu Mang could only watch, unaware of the fifteen year old boy that eyed him.

Intercepting a swing with the flat of his blade, the Prince drove the fallen officer's saber at the other officer's chest. Yet a little wiser from the last encounter, the officer leapt back, knocking the saber away with his own in a shower of sparks and the loud clang of metal. Charging to capitalize on the opportunity, the Prince kicked the officer in the Knee. Surprised, the man staggered—just as a kick impacted with his head. There was a loud crack like a gunshot, and the man fell to the ground, his neck bent at an angle that was clearly less than natural.

The other two officers charged—and then halted as the Prince turned around. The three men circled each other, one of them leaning in a forwards crouch in enthusiasm. For a moment, nobody moved—and then, quick as a snake, the Prince's hand snapped, grabbing the crouched officer by the lapel and yanking him forwards. Slightly weighed down by his ceremonial armor, the officer stumbled forwards—right into the saber that stabbed through his collar. Instead of yanking the sword out, the Prince charged at the other officer, who hesitated at the possibility of striking his ally.

Surprised by the sudden charge, the Officer stepped back—just as a hand snatched his sword hand. Pivoting behind him, the Prince drove his knee into the back of officer's knee, knocking him down. Grabbing the officer by the hair, the Prince swung fist after fist into the poor man. The sound of solid impacts gradually was replaced with wet smacks as blood, phlegm and saliva filled the man's face.

However, one officer still lived, his hands on his neck. Gingerly, he drew a pistol. Previously, he couldn't have shot without risking hitting the civil officials—but with the Prince now focused on one man, he could afford to aim.

With trembling hands, the officer lined up the barrel with the prince's back—

A bang filled the air.

* * *

><p>The Prince turned slowly to face the barrel of the handgun—and then blinked as the officer slumped to the ground.<p>

"I've lived long enough anyway" General Kim muttered as he holstered his handgun. The large, bearded Korean man picked up the officer's handgun and turned it, holding it out with the handle pointed at the Prince, the barrel at his own chest.

"You willing to take an old veteran like me, your highness?"

Prince Weilin smiled. "Of course, General."

"S-stop! You would side with a traitor?"

Lu Mang was still trying to keep control. The crowd turned to face them—and Lu Mang froze.

There was not a single note of uncertainty in their eyes.

There was simply clear, obvious murderous intent.

He could expect no mercy from these officials.

"Traitors! Traitors all! Guards, kill them!"

The Imperial Guards hesitated. Some of them dropped their weapons, while others dutifully, if fearfully, charged.

Military Officials and even Civilian Officials drew their swords, some of them swinging at the guards with stools and nearby lampstands. The hall dissolved into melee.

Lu Mang knew he couldn't rely on these guards. They were merely a distraction.

He need to go. Now.

Turning, he left his chair and began to run.

* * *

><p>Li Xingke huddled in front of the Princess as he watched what was going on in front of him. He would never have imagined the day he saw this—the imperial guard, the army, and the Imperial Officials, fighting in a bloodbath in the main hall that was the pride and honor of the Chinese Federation.<p>

Thankfully, nobody paid attention to them—the imperial guards were fighting for their lives, the officials too busy trying to kill them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Xingke noticed a large, fat man waddling away.

Lu Mang.

_It was this Eunuch who had caused this to happen._

_It was this Eunuch who had simply dismissed his family when his father was wounded in the war._

_Who had made sure that the Princess could not even meet her father._

_Who had brought poverty on so much of the federation._

Xingke put a hand inside his robes, to where he had always concealed a small dagger.

He had, of course, had training with this.

With a practiced throw, he hurled the dagger.

Lu Mang screamed, a loud, shrill scream as the dagger stabbed into his leg. Tripping, he collapsed to the floor.

Xingke considered going to finish him off.

It was what prince Weilin would have done.

And then he heard the cry.

The cry of a certain princess.

For a moment, Xingke hesitated—and then, spitting in the Eunuch's direction, he ran back into the fray to his princess.

* * *

><p>The fight didn't last long—most of the Imperial Guard had put down their arms, and those that remained did not last very long against the military officials who had passed strenuous physical exams for their coveted positions.<p>

"Your Highness!"

Prince Weilin turned as he heard a voice behind him—the young boy with the long hair.

"Li Xingke—you are still here?"

Xingke grinned and nodded, and he held a ceremonial sword. "Lu Mang is over there. I took him down with a dagger."

Weilin blinked. In the melee, he hadn't been able to find the Eunuch—he turned to where the youth pointing—and saw a shaking figure still trying to crawl across the ground.

Xingke smiled eagerly.

"I can finish him for you, your highness."

Weilin smiled.

"And? What of your charge? Are you going to let her see that?"

Xingke blinked in surprise as he turned to the slightly blood-splattered girl who was tugging at his robe.

"Oh, I—"

Weilin sighed as he looked around. While valiant, some of the civil officials didn't have any military training. There were a fair amount of bodies on the ornate stone floor, flowing down the cracks. Given that this was a melee fight, the bodies were not pretty.

"Do you think my sister should see this?"

"I…"

Weilin smiled to the kid. "I am grateful, Li Xingke. Your devotion to the Federation heartens me. But this isn't sight for my sister. Take her somewhere safe…it's best she doesn't see everything that follows."

For a moment, Xingke looked unsatisfied. Finally, though, he looked down. "Yes, your majesty."

As he turned to go, Weilin turned away with a smile.

_If all of our next generation is like this, I have high hopes for the Federation._

* * *

><p>When he was sure the women and Xingke had left, he turned to the remaining officials and the imperial guard officers who had defected.<p>

"Now, let's kill the traitor."

There was no cheer, no growls—simply the all the more dangerous silence of pure killing intent.

Weilin turned to where the Eunuch lay, slowly crawling along the ground and leaving a trail of blood like a particularly bloated slug.

Almost casually, he walked over to Lu Mang. Weilin's saber dragged across the ground with a cruel scratching noise, like the sound of an executioner's axe being sharpened.

Lu Mang scrabbled desperately with pants of exertion and pain as he desperately tried to get away.

_I don't want to die! I don't want to die!_

It was a simple wish, shared by every single animal in the animal kingdom.

And, at this moment, Lu Mang was indistinguishable from any animal, his pants like that of some cornered beast on Helium.

Weilin almost felt Pity. Almost.

"Lu Mang."

For a moment, even the Eunuch's whimpers ceased.

"I execute you for crimes against the Imperial Chinese Federation."

Slowly, he raised his saber as the Eunuch scrabbled with redoubled effort.

There was no begging, no cursing, no rational thought—just the scream of an animal in its death throes.

"Hiiiiiiiiiiii—"

"—"

There is no real way to write down the sound of a sharp metal object impacting flesh.

* * *

><p>"Oh, your highness…not there…."<p>

Guan Tziling (or, as she preferred to be called, Guan Ling) tried not to look too disgusted as she stood outside the bedroom of the Emperor Yong'an.

What the Eunuchs paid her for this was way too little to deal with this shit.

It was like this every day, every hour, every month.

The Imperial Harem consisted of hundreds, thousands of concubines, all existing to please the Emperor and bear children. A little basic math will reveal that in order for each Concubine to get a turn in a year, you're going to have to arrange several rounds a day.

_At least I don't have to be one of them._

Sighing, Ling took out a piece of paper. Pricking her finger, she quickly drew a pattern across the piece of paper with her blood and held it up to the light. There was no change, and Ling sighed. Not like there was ever. This palace was locked so tight that it was impossible that any poison could possibly get in.

Then again, being the Emperor's Bodyguard/Doctor wasn't so bad.

Treat the Emperor's countless venereal diseases, check for poison, it wasn't too bad.

_If this is what it takes to suck up to the Eunuchs, I'll do it._

But honestly, this was demeaning.

A magus from one of the most illustrious houses of China, treating the Emperor for Gonorrhea.

What her father would have said.

Given, it WAS a position close to the emperor, but…

"Hahaha…see you again, your highness!"

With a tinkling laugh, one of the concubines exited, her discarded robes covering her assets.

"Ling-ling! Come in!"

Ling sighed as she formed her "Not this shit again" face. The concubine, now looking a little tired, smiled back resignedly with the "it can't be helped face" as she walked away.

Ling sighed as she watched the concubine go while glancing at the open space underneath her ceremonial armor.

_Not like I'm jealous or anything._

She sighed as she walked in. The smell of aphrodisiac and body liquids annoyed her, but she managed a smile. On the bed was the man that all of China looked up to.

Try as she might, Guan Ling could not summon a shred of respect for this man.

Jiang Anping, Emperor of the Chinese Federation, was a wreck. Then again, Ling conceded, any guy who went through multiple women and multiple course meals in a day would probably look like this. Despite being 40 years old, his physical structure was shrunken and slightly stunted. With skinny, atrophied limbs, gaunt eyes and a blissful, semi-retarded smile, one of the richest men in the world looked easily like some of the poorest.

"The sores…they're back again."

"Are they now? Now now…" Ling reached into her box of remedies and removed a paper packet. Unfolding it, she poured the contents, a white powder, into a nearby pot of tea. Honestly, it was just strong antibiotics—but this spoiled brat of an Emperor wouldn't take it in its raw form.

Sometimes, Ling wondered what would happen if this man would act any differently if he knew what was going on outside this palace. She wondered if he cared.

But that wasn't her job. Her job was to tell him that all was well, and that the Eunuchs were making the peasants happy in the Emperor's name. To keep him in the dark, trapped in a cage of women and pleasures.

"If you can do this, I assure you that we will hasten your confirmation as head of the Tianjing Magic Association."

"Fucking Zhao Hao," she muttered under her breath.

Her ancestors…would they even accept her? But they wouldn't understand.

The Tianjing Magic Association, the association of the Chinese and Japanese magic systems.

Based on the Chinese principles of Wu Xing, the Chinese Taoist and Japanese Onmyodo maintain a culture of magecraft markedly different but equally advanced as the western Magus Association. For thousands of years, members of the association have served the Emperors of China and protected the people. Shinto Priests, the Shaolin Monastic Orders, Mongolian Shamanism, Chinese Necromancy, the Buddhists Priests, the Court Magus and Doctors—all of these are united under the Tianjing Association.

It used to be that it was the Emperor of China who directly confirmed each head of the Association, each of the Sages.

It was this stupid system that allowed the Eunuchs to grasp control of even the Tianjing Association.

And look what it had done. Sure, the western Magus Associaiton was stagnating—but by now the Tianjing Association had now lost most of the world's respect. Japan, adopting the magic of the western association, had turned their backs on their old ways. Yet, in two wars and the Second Pacific War, the Japanese had trounced China, in both magecraft and warfare.

And still these Eunuchs continued on, plundering what they could, stockpiling for some future that clearly did not include the rest of China.

That even someone like Ling, a descendant of the Three Kingdoms Period hero Guan Yunchang, had to prostrate herself in front of these Eunuchs is a disgrace.

And it was all because this useless degenerate was an emperor.

"Fucking Zhao Hao. Fucking Gao Hai. Fucking Lu Mang. Fucking all of—"

And then she bowed with a smile as a group of figures entered.

_The fuckers themselves._

Jabbering in their high pitched voices, here were the Eunuchs.

"Evening, your Eminence—"

The Eunuchs abruptly pushed past her—and Ling realized that there was a tone of fear and urgency in their shrill chatter.

Xia Wang led them, a bespectacled man of Burmese origin who had abandoned his old name for a place in the palace. "Is the Emperor well!"

_No he's got every other venereal disease out there and he's about as good as he was when you guys started stuffing small amounts of poison in his food, what the hell do you want?_

"Y-yes, he is as well as ever—"

Xia Wang smiled with relief as he glanced at the others. "Quickly! We must stall them until our men arrive!"

Zhao Hao, a portly, large Eunuch nodded. "Get up, your highness!"

From the bedroom, a sick, croaking voice replied.

"Zhao Hao…what's the hurry?"

"Your highness, there are men who would like to see you!"

"T…tell them I'm busy."

"Your Highness!"

"I do not want to go! That is a word from your Emperor—"

And then Xia Wang shoved Ling out of the way and rushed into the chamber. Out of nowhere, he had produced a handgun.

"Your Eminence, what—"

Xia Wang was surprisingly strong. With one hand, he dragged the Emperor out of bed. Unused to the physical shock, the Emperor stumbled for a moment before standing up shakily.

"Come, we must go!"

Gao Hai, a tall, skinny Eunuch glanced at Ling and smiled, a humorless smile. "Come along, Ling. We may need your services. Take your weapons."

Guan Ling sighed. "Yes, yes your Eminence," she muttered as she paused to grab the wrapped polearm outside the room.

* * *

><p>"Third Prince Jiang Weilin, Prime Minister to the Yong'an Emperor, demands an audience with my Father, Emperor of China!"<p>

The Inner Palace was protected by a defensive wall—the only thing that now protected the Eunuchs from the wrath of the Coup d'etat forces.

Prince and Prime Minister Jiang Weilin sighed. "I suppose they are going to just hole up in there?"

General Kim sighed. "I say we just break down these doors."

Now supported by some of the more loyal Imperial Guards and the Military Officials, a small army now stood outside the inner palace. On the walls, Imperial Guards stared back nervously.

Weilin shook his head. "Let's try once more."

"Third Prince Jiang Weilin, Prime Minister to the Yong'an Emperor, demands an audience with my Father, Emperor of China!"

Silence answered.

"What? Is it as I feared, that you Eunuchs have long since killed the Emperor? Or are you Eunuchs afraid? Afraid of justice? His people demand an audience!"

Silence.

"Those bastards are going to fight to the end," an undersecretary muttered as his hands tightened on his chair leg.

General Kim groaned. "Your Highness, we may as well just attack."

Weilin nodded. "I suppose. All Imperial Guard inside, lay down your arms and you will not be harmed! We require only the Eunuchs—"

"The Emperor, the Tianzi, is here!"

The shrill voice rang out, once more silencing the Prince.

"He's here?" There was s shocked murmur.

For the first time in their lives, in forty years, the Emperor of China would show his face.

On the rampants, the faces of the Eunuchs appeared, surrounded by Guard officers.

"May the Emperor live ten thousand years, and ten thousand ten thousands of years![5]" they cried in unison.

And, in silence, the Emperor stood before them.

And, for a moment, there was utter silence.

And, for a moment, in everyone's mind, there was the thought:

"Could this really be our Emperor?"

This was no majestic soldier, like Emperor Jieshi, or a striking warrior, or a philosopher king.

This was a skeleton.

A 40-year old gaunt boy wasted away by years of excess.

Overfed, oversexed, overburdened.

This was the Yong'an Emperor. The true face of China.

And yet, a lifetime of hierarchies did not instantly disappear.

Instantly, everyone prostrated themselves, knocking foreheads to the grounds in a mass Kowtow.

"May the Emperor live ten thousand years, and ten thousand ten thousand ten thousands of years!" they cried in perfect unison.

Zhao Hao put a hand on the Emperor's shoulder. "Now, state your grievances to the Emperor himself!"

Prince Weilin walked forwards, to meet with his father for the first time.

_So this is my father._

In a way, his father, stunted, hollow, and looking scared out of his mind, looked more like his son.

"Your son, Jiang Weilin, prostrates himself before you!"

"I-I what do you want with me? Why do you raise arms against me and my caretakers?"

"Your Majesty, we do not come in rebellion against you.

Rather, Father, your majesty, we are here to open those eyes that have been held shut by those detestable men next to you!"

The Emperor turned in disbelief to the Eunuchs, as if expecting somebody else to be there.

"What are you talking about? Zhao Hao, Gao Hai, Wei Xia, Cai Lishi and the others are my deepest confidantes, who exercise my will and keep my nation in prosperity!"

"Forgive my rudeness, your highness, but they are no friends, no confidantes. Do you know of the war we are fighting in Annam? Of the famine in India? Or of the floods in Thailand?"

"What—what are you talking about—"

"Of the madness that these 'confidantes' of yours are hiding from you?"

"Nonsense," Gao Hai cried. "These are lies that these men are using to turn your highness against us, your most loyal servants!"

"Gao Hai, what—is this true?"

"No, all lies," the Eunuchs chorused. The Emperor, though, did not seem convinced.

"Your Majesty, do not listen to these Eunuchs, who mislead you with honeyed words and pretty women as they drive your nation into the ground!"

"Ohhhhhhhh—" At that moment, with a wail, Wei Xia prostrated himself to the ground, knocking his forehead against the ground so hard that blood flowed.

"Wei Xia—" The Emperor started in concern

"Emperor, order us to kill ourselves now if you desire it! If you would trust their madness over us, then we would gladly give our lives to you!"

"That drama queen," Kim muttered derisively.

"All of us stand before you as your most humble servants," Zhao Hao Echoed as well as he and the other Eunuchs prostrated. "Will you trust their slander?"

The Emperor, though, continued staring. "Zhao Hao…I…."

And then General Kim let out a loud curse in Korean. "Enough of this! We need not the Emperor to dirty his hands!" Raising his handgun, he pointed it at Zhao Hao, the fattest and largest target. "I will kill them myself for you, your majesty!"

—and then, at that moment, Zhao Hao grabbed the Emperor and stuffed him before him.

"Shoot, then! If we die, the Emperor dies with us!"

Weilin's eyes widened. "What—how dare you—"

"Put down your weapons, traitors, in front of the Emperor!"

"Your highness—"

"PUT THEM DOWN!"

For a moment, Prince Weilin simply stared in shock—and then, slowly, he prostrated himself, touching his forehead to the ground.

And then there was a roar—not the crack of gunfire, but the loud, proud roar of an artillery gun.

Adjutant Nguyen, ignoring protocol, listened to the radio.

"Milord, the Eunuch's men are using tanks to break through our defenses!"

Weilin turned to the Eunuchs. "So you would even abandon the sacred rules of the Forbidden City and deploy armored units?"

Gao Hai smiled indulgently. "To crush a rebellion and protect our emperor, petty rules are not necessary."

And then, among the cannonfire, came a new sound. Kim cursed.

"Helicopters."

For the first time in fifty years, the airspace of the forbidden city was broken as military helicopters suddenly filled the sky.

Weilin glared at Gao Hai. "You would break every rule?"

From the helicopters, troops began dropping in—Chinese Marines and Army, in uniforms of blue and green. The way their guns were pointed at the coup forces made clear their allegiances.

Kim grunted at Weilin. "Well, we only have chance at this…want to try for it?"

Weilin nodded to his troops.

Wei Xia blinked. "What are you—"

And then General Kim, Weilin, and his men charged. With a vault, Prince Weilin clambered up the wall with two quick steps, into the crowd of guards. Followed by Nguyen, Kim and some of their men, they began attacking the Imperial Guard. Crowded on the rampants, they one by one as the Eunuchs could only look on. Kim drew his handgun and pointed it at Gao Hai.

"Eunuchs, at the very least, you will fall with us!"

A gunshot—and then a loud clang.

For a moment, everybody stared in silence at the short-haired woman in front of the Eunuchs.

"Nobody harms the Emperor," Guan Tziling said quietly as she swung the polearm with which she had blocked the bullet in warning..

Kim cursed as he drew his sword. "You would defend these Eunuchs, Magus?"

Guan Tziling shrugged as she twirled her polearm. With its head completely wrapped in a canvas bag, it lacked any killing edge.

"If it protects the Emperor, yes."

Kim blinked. "You will not pull off that bag?"

"I don't need to."

General Kim's eyes narrowed. "Well, if that is your arrogance."

With that, he charged.

Victory and defeat was determined instantly.

"What…the hell….." General Kim murmured—and then crumpled.

"That's—" a soldier started

The canvas bag blew away, cut by the blade inside.

A long, curved blade, almost as long as a dao, tapering to two points.

A ring attached to one point jangling.

The shape of a dragon engraved in the blade.

A Guan Dao.

Nguyen cursed as he raised his assault rifle with his comrades.

"Fuck it, you can't block bullets—"

Prince Weilin held out a hand. "Wait—"

And then Guan Ling was upon them.

A few of the soldiers, aware of the danger, raised their rifles in defense as she approached—

And then she was clear, the blade glowing with a green light.

Weilin, from his dealings with the Tianjing association, realized exactly what this was.

Heirloom of the Guan Family, passed down for over a thousand years.

Once a conceptual weapon.

Now a noble phantasm.

There is no weapon more legendary, no weapon more well known in China.

The halberd used by hero Guan Yunchang in the three kingdoms.

Not simply a Guan Dao, but THE Guan Dao.

The Green Crescent Dragon Blade, the one used by Guan Yunchang himself.

Silently, the remaining troops around Weilin collapsed in silence.

The short-haired girl glanced up at Weilin expressionlessly. "…will you still resist?"

Prince Weilin smiled, a desperate smile.

As a Prince, in defeat in victory, he had to maintain his honor.

Slowly, he raised his Jian in front of him.

"Long Live the Emperor!"

He charged—and then felt a blast of air pressure. Desperately, he raised his jian—and then felt his arm nearly wrenched off as the Jian was knocked out of his hand. The impact knocked him off the walls.

He flew off the walls, his back slamming to the ground—just in time to see a thicket of rifle barrels and spear barrels point themselves at him.

"The Chief traitor, Jiang Weilin, has been captured," Wei Xia yelled triumphantly. "Soldiers, arrest the rest of these traitors!"

He turned to the Emperor and Guan Ling.

"Tziling, escort his highness back to his quarters."

"Come on, your majesty…let's get you washed off," Guan Ling sighed as she put a hand on the Emperor—and then stopped when she saw his face.

He seemed shaken, like a man who had been hit with a bat.

He managed a weak smile at Guan Ling.

"Ling-ling."

"Yes, your highness?"

"Is what that man said true? What have I done?"

Guan Ling tried to smile reassuringly. "Your Majesty, don't worry, it was all lies—" It didn't sound convincing, even to her.

"Guan Ling! As the Emperor! Tell me the truth! Is what he said true?"

For a moment, Guan Ling froze. She looked around. The Eunuchs were not following her. They trusted her enough.

"Yes. Yes, your majesty."

Guan Ling turned to the emperor—and, for the first time, felt pity.

For, on his face was not simply fear. It was shock.

The shock of a man who had just realized that his whole life had been a lie.

* * *

><p><strong>1 Year Later<strong>

**Luoyang**

According to his executioner, "Prince Jiang Weilin, Traitor to his Country" was what the wooden sign said on Jiang Weilin's back.

The coup, of course, had failed. When he had been captured, the Civil Officials and Military Officials were rounded up, along with most of the Royal Family.

In retrospect, it had been the perfect way for the Eunuchs to eliminate their last opposition.

According to "Imperial Edict", there would be no more civil examinations for Chief Ministers—each of the High Eunuchs would head each of the ministries.

Weilin craned his neck from his prisoner's cart. Made of rough wood, the cart held a group of stocks that held each prisoner's head in place.

"Well, I never imagined I'd be on this end of the spectacle," a voice behind him said drily. General Huang sighed. "I used to be an executioner before I got promoted by your grandfather."

"Well, I suppose it's a learning experience."

Their cart was hardly the only one. Behind them were most of the Ministers of the Court, and the remaining 32 Princes and Princesses. The Eunuchs had conveniently implicated almost all of the Imperial family. A perfect chance to seize power.

From the streets, the populace watched silently.

Some of them wept, some of them just stared blankly.

Weilin sighed. "Any regrets, Huang?"

"That I didn't kill those Eunuchs when I had the chance?"

"Fair enough. It seems like we're here."

They were at a public square, fenced off and guarded by soldiers. From an upper dias, the Eunuchs seemed to be enjoying the scene.

"For their roles in their rebellion, these traitors will be executed by firing squad for lèse-majesté. May this be a warning for those who oppose the Emperor!"

"What a joke," Huang muttered.

Lifting the stocks, soldiers began unloading their prisoners.

"Careful, your highness," a soldier whispered. Compared to some of the other soldiers, he was unloading the cart rather gently.

"You can get killed for that," Weilin whispered back.

"I'll take the risk, you're highness."

"I guess that's one secret I'll…take to the grave," Weilin chuckled.

The soldier didn't laugh at the joke.

Slowly, they were made to stand in a line, their necks bound together as the herald continued harping on.

"Fucking Eunuchs love their shows," Huang growled.

"Prostrate yourself before the future Empress, Princess Taizi[6] Jiang Lihua!"

Instantly, the crowd kowtowed.

"May the Emperor live ten thousand years, and ten thousand ten thousand ten thousands of years!"

Weilin cursed. Of course it'd be a princess—that way, the Eunuchs could prostitute her off to whoever would give them a high rank in exchange for place as Emperor. Whatever those Eunuchs were, they weren't stupid.

As they passed by the dias, Weilin looked up—and then blinked. That white hair. He only knew one princess who had escaped the purge, the one that was just young enough to not be a threat.

* * *

><p>"Wait, what are they doing to Big brother and big sister?"<p>

Princess Jiang Lihua could barely believe her eyes as she tearfully watched her siblings enter the arena.

Li Xingke wished he could cover them—but he knew the Eunuchs would kill him for it.

Gao Hai smiled indulgently at the Princess.

"Your Highness, they have committed grave crimes against your father, the Emperor, and China. They must die for it."

"Big Brother Weilin wouldn't do that!"

"Your Highness, they do say not to judge a book by its cover."

You bastard, Xingke thought to himself.

He could only stare downwards at his former hero.

After a year in detainment, he looked starved, maltreated and bruised.

And yet, the former Prime Minister and Crown Prince stood tall.

He wanted to call to him.

He wanted to draw his sword on these Eunuchs.

But he wouldn't.

For he would fail, and die.

And who else would be able to protect the princess from these almost-men's machinations?

Jiang Weilin was looking up at the dias at the Princess with a sad look on his face.

If only you had succeeded, Xingke thought to himself.

As much as he idolized that man, he hated that man. Detested him.

He hated that man because he had failed. And had left such a burden on the Princess, a princess only six years old.

Xingke swallowed the lump in his throat as he continued staring, as a good bodyguard could.

And, as Weilin moved on, their eyes met.

For only a second.

For only a moment.

After that, he was prodded on.

But at that moment, Weilin smiled.

A peaceful smile.

Xingke didn't hear anything—but he knew exactly what his idol was saying.

_Protect my sister._

_I believe you can do it._

_I believe in you, Li Xingke._

And somehow, that faith, that faith from a man just moments from the grave was what made him want to cry more than anything.

* * *

><p>"I guess this is the Eunuch's world now, isn't it?" Huang growled as they lined up in front of the firing line.<p>

"Maybe. Maybe for now. But not for long," Weilin replied.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed the soldiers applying a blindfold to Huang.

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you know a Li Xingke?"

"Now's not a good time for me to remember names."

"He's the guardian of our current Taizi."

"The Princess? He has his work cut out for him."

"But I believe he can do it. I know that there are people like him in the Chinese Federation. That they are ready to defend China. And I believe they can do it."

The soldiers had marched up to him already. The cloth blindfold slid over his eyes.

"Well, I guess that's all we can do at this point, right?"

"Yeah. I guess it's up to them now."

Around them, the crowd had fallen silent. Somewhere behind them, a soldier yelled, "Ready!"

Even blindfolded, Jiang Weilin smiled.

_Eunuchs, keep on hoping. Keep on hoping you will live on, and your reigns will continue._

_Believe in your greed, believe in your twisted future._

"Aim!"

_Because I believe in Li Xingke._

_Because I believe in the Chinese People._

_Because I believe in China._

"Fire!"

* * *

><p>"Well, so ends a generation," Gao Hai sighed with a melodramatic air. "Poor fools…if they had chosen to serve us, they could have been rolling in wealth."<p>

He turned to the long-haired boy next to him.

"You, Li Xingke, I know, are different. I have seen your talents. You, Li Xingke, are wise. For what you are choosing is a golden future. You know where your loyalties lie, right?"

"Yes, your eminence. You, your eminence."

"Ah, yes, of course. Such a smart boy," Gao Hai exclaimed with a feminine laugh. "Now let us watch the rest of this spectacle."

Li Xingke's hands curled into fists.

_Keep on believing that, Gao Hai._

_Keep believing that I am your faithful pawn._

_I'll do what I need to._

_I'll scrabble in the dirt and lick your boots. _

_And someday, when you least expect it, I will have my revenge. China's revenge._

_So until then, keep enjoying your days._

_Because they are numbered._

* * *

><p><strong>Vermillion Forbidden Palace, Luoyang<strong>

"Your majesty…."

"Just go. Leave me."

Guan Tziling said nothing as a confused looking concubine left the Emperor's bedchambers.

The concubine turned to Guan Ling with a quizzical look. Guan Ling shrugged.

_It's better I not explain it._

She sighed as she watched the woman walk away and as she looked back at her own chest.

_Not like I'm jealous or anything…_

Silently, she walked over to the chamber door and listened.

Beyond, she could hear the soft rhythmic sounds of sobbing.

Sighing, she knocked on the doorframe and entered.

Sprawled across the bed was the Yong'An Emperor.

In the past year, he had grown even more gaunt.

And now, his eyes were stained with tears.

"Guan Ling…do you know how I feel right now?"

Guan Ling said nothing.

"The feeling of knowing that your sons and daughters right now are being killed? Knowing that right now they are disappearing from the earth, and you've never met them? The feeling of the cruelest father in the world?"

Guan Ling could say nothing.

"What monster would live their whole life without even seeing his child?"

Guan Ling closed her eyes, for she did not know if she would break into tears at the same moment.

The Yong'an emperor was a broken man.

In a way, Guan Ling wished he had never stepped out on that fateful day. So that he could just be that sex-addicted, relaxed detestable man, blissfully unaware that he had unwittingly killed over a million men out of negligence.

Now the bird knew he was in a cage. He would never be able to sing again.

Like a bird that had discovered its wings were clipped and its voice muted, it can only lay on the ground.

This pathetic man, crying tears of blood, was the Emperor of China. The son of Heaven. And yet, in this situation, he was pathetic, a blubbering man with less dignity than the lowest peasant.

Guan Ling wished she did not have to hit this man with another blow.

But it was necessary.

"Your Majesty."

"Y-yes, Guan Ling?"

"I…" Guan Ling swallowed. "I am here to announce that I am leaving your service."

"…you too? You would leave me too?"

"I have been ordered by the Eunuchs to retrieve a certain artifact in Japan. It is possible I will not survive."

"…I understand. After all, it is the Eunuchs who rule, isn't it?" Like the chimpanzee that has realized it is no longer living in the African jungle but in a zoo, the Emperor now knew the full extent of his powerlessness.

"Your majesty…"

"It's alright. If I were you, I would leave this useless man as well."

"Your highness, please do not say such…such words." Even Guan Ling could not choke back a sob. She was going to be leaving this man alone, surrounded by Eunuchs who lied on him, servants that spied on him, concubines who eavesdropped on his deepest worries. In a way, she was his only confidante, and it hurt her to know that he was now utterly alone.

"I…alright. I give you my blessing, Guan Tziling…whatever it counts for."

Guan Ling prostrated herself.

"May the Emperor live ten thousand years and ten thousand ten thousand years."

"….may it be not even one more year," the Emperor replied quietly as Guan Tziling left.

* * *

><p>Guan Tziling turned one more time for a last look at the Vermillion Forbidden City. The front gates had been replaced with heavy military bunker-level gates, and sandbags surrounded the city.<p>

For a moment, she was tempted to turn back, to ask the Eunuchs to reconsider—and then she shook her head.

This was for him.

She didn't know why she decided this, how he felt like this.

The Emperor Yong'an was not a handsome man—he was skinny, stunted, a wasted man whose life had been completely burnt away like ash.

He was forty, and Guan Ling was in her twenties.

Each and every of his concubines was more beautiful than Guan Ling, with her mildly boyish looks and flat chest. He had no reason to like her, and she had no reason to like him.

But somehow, in those years where she had doted to his every need, she had felt attached to this pathetic man.

Somehow, she had come to care for this worthless man, who until a year ago had known and cared for nothing more than his sensual pleasures.

And, more than anything, she wished to free him.

On the Eunuchs' orders, as the representative of the Tianjing Association, she would participate in some kind of battle royale in next door Japan.

A battle between heroic spirits.

She already had her catalyst—the Guan Dao, and her command seals had already materialized. All that was necessary was for her to summon Guan Yunchang on the promised day.

The most well known spirit in East Asia, known by one out of every four people in the world—she had no chance of losing.

She would obtain the Holy Grail.

But she would not present it to those Eunuchs who had funded her trip. The grail will not be used by those madmen. In fact, it will be their undoing.

She will obtain the Holy Grail and free that poor man, a prisoner in his own palace.

She does not envision a blissful future with this man.

Guan Tziling does not hope for some fairy tale ending—after all, the man doesn't even look the part of the Prince, even as an Emperor.

She simply wants to set him free.

* * *

><p><strong>Footnotes and References<strong>

* * *

><p>[1] Is Chinese New Year Really on January 23rd of 2010 ATB? – I have not a fucking clue. HeavyValor and I are both very iffy on the ATB system since it demands Code Geass occur in the 1960s, which is like saying that we should have had an advanced internet, giant robots and laser beams before we even invented Credit Cards. Frankly, it's a little ridiculous, but so are many things that are truth in code geass history (the guns? None of them are gunpowder or gas-combustion weapons. They're railguns. Look it up.) So not only do I have no idea when Chinese New Year is on this year I don't even know what this year is. I'm chinese and yes, I really have no idea, but for the story narrative's sakes, let's just say it is.<p>

[2] Overcharging – Haggling is expected of you in Asia. If you don't speak the language or can't hold your ground, prepare to pay a lot more than how much whatever you're paying for is actually worth. Then again, it's probably still cheaper in many cases than what you can buy in the homeland.

[3] Jiang Jieshi – the name he is better known as in History is Chiang Kai-Shek, the President of Nationalist China before the Chinese Civil War and the creation of communist China. Jiang Jieshi is the mandarin pronunciation (The dominant dialect in China). Chiang Kai-Shek is the pronunciation in Cantonese (used in Southern China and Hong Kong).

[4] High Voices – The Church used to make use of this—children were emasculated so that their voice would remain high, they're called Castratos. The use of it died out in the 20th century, mainly because it's kinda rude to rip off some poor kid's balls.

[5] Ten Thousand Ten Thousands – a literal translation used in courts. The original goes like this: "願皇上萬歲萬萬歲"

[6] Taizi not Tianzi – Tianzi is the Son of Heaven, (天子). Taizi is the word for Crown Prince (太子). Both of these are strictly male, given China hasn't had many empresses, but there's no female equivalent.

* * *

><p><strong>Note: A sketch of the characters can be found at (remove spaces) ht tp :  / thejimmierustler . deviantart . com / art / F-ZE-Chinese-Federation-Characters-296050351**

**I'm not the best of artists, so pardon. Some other pieces of art that I drew can be found on HeavyValor's page.**

* * *

><p><strong>-Afterword, Q&amp;A-<strong>

**Well, this chapter (and the first Pilot for the series, released as a prologue) will be the second weekly release for Fate/Zero Eos, with three sets of weekly updates left. In the meantime, somewhat in the fashion of HeavyValor, I would like to take a few letters in this story to answer or address any concerns/comments/questions in the review. If you have any questions about canon, the direction the story is going, or any concern or comment, feel free (and, in fact, I hope that you) leave them as a review. It's good to get feedback from the reader, or to give feedback to the writer. In the meantime, I'll get to the current reviews.**

**WarChild - Thank you for pointing this. Looking through the story, there are quite a few things that shouldn't be there (I refer to King Arthur as a She from Mordred's point of view once or twice, and I mentioned Charlemagne two hundred years before Charlemagne and Charles Martel were born). I have corrected as necessary, and thank you for your support.**

**EVA-Saiyanjin - I'd like to thank you as well for your correction. I unintentionally referred to King Arthur, even to those unaware of her gender, as Arturia, a mistake that I really should have been able to avoid. However, I have also corrected for this, and I thank you for the heads-up. In hte meantime, thank you for the encouragement! Expect to see a word or ten thousand in the next few weeks!**

**Slayerbion - I am hoping that the "wow" is not the "you dun goofed" kind of wow, but an impressed one. If I have dun goofed, I will do my best to ungoof myself. In the meantime, thanks for the review!**

**Lenkish - I am glad that I've appealed to you! The immortals, indeed, will play a very large role in the war, as implied in the pilots in Nightmare Apatheia. There will certainly be several masters from Britannia, and I hope you look forwards to it!  
><strong>


	6. 1 Year Ago: Before the Storm

**Reviewers, firstly, thanks a LOT for the input. I'm really glad to hear from you all.**

**A Q and A section is at the end of this chapter in response to your reviews.**

**New readers, I'm glad you've read this far, and I hope you leave a review or two!**

**Thanks, Mr. Sparkles **

* * *

><p><strong>-Before the Storm-<strong>

_""Love is like war, except without all the blood and death and stuff."_

_-_Jarod Kintz_, This Book is Not for Sale_

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

**December 24th, Ascension Throne Britannia 2009**

**Lord Robert F. Kennedy Imperial Airport**

**New York, Britannia, Holy Empire of Britannia**

"Alright, kids, geddoff. Thank ye for riding with _Zayde_ (Yiddish for Grandfather. See [1])Airlines. Please unbuckle your seatbelts and…oh just get off already!"

The children on the Kruszewski family laughed gleefully at Iser Moszkowski's exaggerated accent as they effectively spilled out of the family SUV.

Monica Kruszewski smiled as she carefully lowered four-year old Mirele, the youngest of her three siblings, onto the parking lot pavement. Grandfather's airplane pilot shtick never grew old.

"You're not quite as cool as when you had the Motorbike, _Zayde_," Monica remarked teasingly as her grandfather, a balding man in his 70's lurched out of the driver's seat.

Iser grinned. "10 years of lyin' around watching TV in this country does that to you, _bubbeleh_."

"'Little Grandmother' is probably a poor way to refer to your granddaughter, you know…"

Monica's grandfather shrugged. "That's what I called your mother too."

"Implying I didn't tell you to stop then," Reina Kruszewski drily responded as she simultaneously checked in the SUV for stragglers and zipped the jacket of Felix, Mirele's (slightly) older brother.

"It's cute," Iser protested.

"Not when the kids start to call me that. Makes me feel old."

"I thought it was cute," Monica's father added as he shouldered three-year old Mirele (to squeals of laughter). His gentle voice was easily drowned out by the loud argument between father and daughter, a curious blend of Yiddish, Polish and English that seemed to combine the loudest aspects of each language.

Monica had inherited Janusz Kruszewski's gentle facial features and softspoken nature, traits that certainly did not manifest themselves on Iser's side of the family. It made sense: Janusz's grandfather (and Monica's Great-grandfather) had been a catholic priest whose chastity belt had been a size too small during the Second Great European War.

During that time, Reina's grandfather (and Iser's father) was fighting Tanks on Horseback [2].

Monica's father took a look at his watch, serenely unaffected by the loud conversation next to him. "When's your flight, Monica?"

"In 3 hours."

"Well, I guess we have time to grab a bite. A Christmas dinner, of sorts."

Monica's grandfather looked up from his Airport restaurant meal as he grinned squarely at Monica.

"Calling you over on Christmas Eve—you, my girl, are going to kick some ass—wherever they send you!"

Iser Moszkowski wasn't known for his tact.

"Don't say that! It might just be a false alarm," Reina warned indignantly.

"_Yente,_ don't be silly," the former Britannian Air Force Pilot replied, slamming the table and spraying specks of food all over his five grandchildren (to Mirele and five-year-old Felix's glee). "Those rich _frajer_ in Japan, those spineless _zdrajca_ in Europe and those Chinese _cholernica_ want to start something with Britannia. It's obvious we're going to hand one (if not all) of their asses back to them. I hope it's those French and German _skurwielu_. Traitors.[3]"

When Chancellor Adolf Hitler of Germany was assassinated by an anarchist in the summer of ATB 1939, the Soviet Union had swept into Europe, reaching as far as Western Germany in the war known as the Second Great European War. Only through Britannian Support and the action of Polish Partisans did the early European Union Military force a stalemate and then a ceasefire along a DMZ. Against the wishes of both Britannia and Poland, the E.U. (led by France and Germany) had left most of Poland east of the DMZ (which came to be called the Iron Curtain) in the ensuing treaty, leaving the stranded resistance fighters (who had fought the hardest against the Soviet Military) to be crushed by the Soviets. Iser Moszkowski, like so many other Poles who had fled the USSR to Britannia, had never quite forgiven the E.U. for their betrayal.

"Don't say that stuff in front of the kids," Monica's mother snapped. Iser shrugged.

"It's not like they know Polish anyway."

"Now, now, this may just be some kind of training drill," Janusz offered with a conciliatory gesture and a tone of warning.

"…Could be, Jan," Iser grudgingly noted. Monica had only seen her father angry a few times in her life, but she remembered every one of them vividly. Her Grandfather, it seemed, had not forgotten either.

"Still, Monica, do us Kruszewskis proud—earn those Knight's Wings," Iser said presently with a wink. Iser insisted that the Moskowskis were descendants of the old _Rycerz_, the landowning knights that formed the backbone of Poland's cavalry force, though nobody else in the family really believed it. As far as Monica knew, most of catholic Poland wasn't exactly in love with its Jewish citizens. Antisemitism remained strong, particularly in parts of Russia and Germany.

Monica, though, felt a stab of guilt when Iser mentioned the air force.

On the surface, 2nd Lieutenant Monica Kruszewski was still a member of the Britannian Air Cavalry, the Fighter wing of the Britannian Air Force. She even had a duplicate pilot's wings, something that Iser boasted proudly about. Monica's grandfather had once been a pilot in the Air Cavalry, and he had always been very proud of his granddaughter's decision to join the Air Force.

But for the last two years, she hadn't piloted a single jet plane.

Instead, she was piloting what was essentially a humanoid tank.

She, along with the top cadets of the Armored, Naval Aviation and Air Force Academies, were being trained for Britannia's new and top secret weapon.

The Glasgow Knightmare Frame.

"I'll do my best, grandpa," she said with a smile on the surface.

Her grandpa grinned a slightly-toothless smile. "That's the spirit. Y'know, you have Jan's _shayner_ (Yiddish for Pretty) looks, but you definitely have your great-grandfather's spirit. I remember when you were still as tall as Mirele, back before your mother was such an old _yenta_…"

There was a moment of awkward silence as Iser braced for his daughter's angry response, to receive nothing in return. Even Monica's father turned towards his wife, concerned.

"Erm…Reina?"

Reina Kruszewski's eyes looked as if they were underwater.

Monica stuttered uncomfortably.

"M-mom…are you alright?"

"I-it's nothing," Reina explained. "It's just that you just came back, all skinny and haggard, and now they're t-taking you away from me again…"

Monica sighed. Just prior to her return for the Holidays, she and the other cadets had been in a training exercise in which they were supposed to have had ejected from their knightmares in enemy territory. As part of the exercise, she and all the cadets had been "captured" by the enemy and subjected to a simulated version of captivity, a simulation that may as well have been the original (some of the cadets had broken at the time). When she had arrived back on Long Island in early December, she had lost fifteen pounds [4].

"Mom, don't worry, it was a one-time-thing," Monica explained, but Reina Kruszweski would have none of it, despite both Iser 's, Janusz's and the children's attempts to console her.

"And w-when I think of the fact that one day you might c-come back in a coffin…"

And then Monica's mother dissolved into a pool of tears.

Janusz Kruszewski sighed. "This is going to take a while…"

* * *

><p>By the time Monica's grandfather and father managed to pry her mother off her and away from the Terminal, Oneida Air 239 should have lifted off. Yet a Stewardess was still waiting at the boarding gate, nodding politely as a breathless Monica showed her boarding pass.<p>

"You really took your time getting here, Monica."

Monica glanced up at the dark-haired boy in dress uniform.

"You didn't stop the whole flight for me, did you?"

2nd Lieutenant Kayeri Brant III shrugged with his usual serene smile. "Being the son of an Imperial Senator[5] has its privileges."

Monica sighed with exasperation as she sized up the boy. Slightly below Monica in height, Kayeri was clearly on the somewhat short side. His uniform showed not a single crease, and what looked like a sequined scarf was draped over his left shoulder—the blue-and-white Wampum[6] that identified him as part of the Iroquois Confederacy.

Since their support of the Britannian Government in Washington's Rebellion, the Haudenosaunee (People of the Longhouse) had enjoyed great favor with the Government of the Holy Empire of Britannia. Based in the provincial capital of Caughnawaga in upstate New York, the Confederacy's Autonomous Council of Indigenous Tribes was Britannia's first satellite state and the collective representative of the natives of Britannia. Kayeri's father was Grand Sachem and Imperial Senator Joseph Brant V, head of the Britannian Native Party, the political wing of the Confederacy.

Monica was inclined to point out that what Kayeri had done amounted to corporate corruption, but decided to keep that in her head. "Never say anything unless you're absolutely sure it's worth saying," her father had always said.

"Thanks," she settled.

In the cadet corps, Kayeri Brant III was known as the unit goofoff, the guy who would paint a face (poorly) on his knightmare or set alight a distinctly phallic-shaped pattern of coffee creamer in front of the barracks. Yet Monica, having been in the same unit as Kayeri, was aware of his strong sense of loyalty to his friends, and was proud of the fact that the somewhat-short Iroquois considered her among them.

They walked through the boarding stairs onto the airplane.

"I upgraded your seat to business class, by the way," Kayeri noted offhandedly as he steered Monica away from the cramped Economy class seats by the shoulders.

Monica sighed resignedly but didn't complain as she let herself be absorbed by the spacious seats. The life of the Bourgeoisie could sure be convenient.

* * *

><p>32,000 miles up above Pennsylvania, Monica leaned back on her chair, politely refusing an air steward's offer of drinks.<p>

Glugging down a can of soda, it seemed that Kayeri had no such qualms.

"Not a fan of carbonated beverages?"

"I just ate."

"Might be the last chance you'll get it before…well, whatever is brewing happens."

Monica gave Kayeri a look. She would have disregarded it if it came from her grandfather, but Kayeri was the son of a Senator. What he said was close to the truth.

"…a war?"

Kayeri shrugged, cracking open another can of soda. "Seems like it. The international situation's been deteriorating since Senator Blake got assassinated. The EU's pissed about us sending weapons to the English and Scot separatists, and the Chinese have their jimmies rustled over losing Indochina. Throw Kururugi's 'sakuradite diplomacy' into the picture and we have everybody gunning to kill us."

It was dangerous, even to Britannia, Monica conceded. Japan was the richest nation in the world thanks to the new Sakuradite boom. With the advent of Sakuradite technology, the economic balance of power shifted from the Middle Eastern Federation into Japan, the largest producer of Sakuradite.

And Japan's Prime Minister, Genbu Kururugi, was determined to make the most out of economic muscle. Britannia's slow encroachment around Japan and the Indochina coast had served to drive the Kururugi Administration together with the Chinese Federation—even now, Cabinet Secretary Atsushi Sawasaki was in talks in Luoyang over a naval cooperation agreement.

"What are our chances of winning?"

Taking Monica's untouched airline dinner, Kayeri started shifting the boxes to make a particularly blocky map of the world. He pointed at a block that he promptly explained to be Europe.

"The Irish, French and German fleets are blockading iceland and Greenland, and I don't think the military's going to risk the Atlantic Fleet against most of the EU's naval capacity.

"Korea and China are essentially the Chinese heartland, and I don't see Britannia striking into India—the Indians hate the Britannians more than they hate the Chinese."

Since China had swept into India after the Sepoy Rebellion[7], the Indians had been vying for independence, a move that was somewhat crippled by the fact that the Hindus and Muslims of India were busy fighting religious wars with each other.

"the only weakness I see," Kayeri continued, "is Japan. Technically, it's not really a weakness…the Japanese have as good an air force and navy as we do. But Japan isn't really expecting a direct attack, and I don't think they're going to want Chinese or EU troops on their soil too. If we can control the Sakuradite mines, then we pretty much have the EU and Federation by their balls. Now, the question is the quality of the troops."

Kayeri glanced out the window. "Britannia's Air force, infantry and armor are the best in the world, but not by much. The EU would match us if they weren't so disunited, and the Chinese Federation has a hell of a lot more everything than we do. The only thing going for us is…well, us."

Kayeri managed to say it without a shred of irony, and Monica knew it was true. Nobody outside Britannia had even heard of the Glasgow Knightmare Frame—and, over two years, Kayeri, Monica and the other cadets had trained until they could skate through a minefield. On the ground, the Knightmare Frame would probably be the deciding factor in any ground war that was on the way.

"The problem is we're fighting almost half of the world with the Chinese Federation and Japan alone. No technological superiority is going to overcome that. Our only hope is for a quick war, two months at best. Any more and our supply lines are going to bog us down. At that point, we'll start seeing our POW practice come into play."

Kayeri laughed, but the truth was a lot more worrying. Knightmares were not made to advance with an army—they would be the lancers, the vanguard that would have to carve through enemy tanks and infantry so that the Britannian forces could mop up. For all the safety features guaranteed by the Glasgow's ejection seat, Monica didn't like her odds of making it back to safety.

"No pressure or anything, of course." Kayeri grinned, and Monica smiled.

While her mentor and friend Dorothea Ernst radiated a certain firm sense of leadership, Kayeri 's omnipresent smile always conveyed a sense of reassurance, a sense that everything would be fine.

_What do I have, in comparison?_

* * *

><p>In the Economy section, the black-haired boy nervously glanced at his gloved right hand with a mix of anxiety and pride.<p>

With a relaxed sigh, he leaned back, lounging happily across the window seats. The individual who had bought a ticket next to his seat was apparently absent, leaving him with the pleasure of two blankets, two pillows and a small bed.

Wearing a nondescript green jumper over a white dress shirt, Waver Velvet looked no different from the Ivy League students discussing the farewell frat party a few rows across.

Yet, at this moment, he felt as if he had accomplished more than most Ivy League graduates did in a lifetime.

For the first few hours after he had left by Chinatown bus from the Magus Association's headquarters in Boston, he had been quivering in fear, expecting the Association's Enforcers to descend on him at any moment.

But now, aware of the oddly-shaped bruise on his right palm, he was confident that what he had done was not chance, but fate.

After all, the Holy Grail had chosen him as a master—one of the seven ranks fought over by the top magus around the world.

Victory in this war could give him access to all he ever wished.

And, more importantly, he would be able to prove to those obsolete professors of Clock Tower that he was a magus worthy of respect.

Waver Velvet's family was a relatively new Magus family—it was only three generations ago that the first of the Velvet line, a middle-class Britannian banker, discovered that he was capable of magecraft.

Compared to the Association's elites—the Barthomeloi and El-Melloi with their centuries of history or even the Springfields, with their two centuries, the Velvet family may as well have been incapable of magecraft.

Yet, Waver Velvet was prepared for his inevitable meteoric rise into fame.

After all, he had been accepted not simply by the Magus Association's prestigious Clock Tower University, but by nonmagus colleges such as Yale and the University of Chicago, all prestigious institutions that Waver's family had espoused.

Usually, Clock Tower University offered scholarships only to magus families of at least six generations—but, through intensive self-study, Waver had entered with only three generations of magecraft behind him.

When Waver Velvet entered Clock Tower, he had been expecting an open academic theatre receptive to his genius, a land where even those with less potential for magecraft could ascend to great heights, just like the nonmagus college system.

After all, he had read that the Association had turned over a new leaf after leaving Decadent Europe, with its old moldy hierarchies and nobilities.

But what Waver Velvet found was not the case.

The whole Western Concept of Magecraft is based around the existence of Magic Circuits. A modified, secondary nervous system that had manifested itself for millions of years, a mage's magic circuit system functions as a primitive catalyst that combines the body's own caloric energy, Od, with ambient energy in the surroundings, Mana, to form Prana, the magic unit traditionally used in Magecraft.

A magus with more circuits or more efficient circuits is capable of generating more Prana, and is thus capable of performing greater acts of magecraft. More Magic Circuits, simply, meant more raw power.

Clock Tower, Waver Velvet found, was not a classless society of academics, but an old feudal system where power was determined by the strength of one's bloodline and magic circuits. Those bloodlines with many magic circuits did their best to maintain or increase their number, interbreeding with other powerful bloodlines while doing their best to prevent the lower-ranks from increasing in power.

And though the professors claimed to be impartial, it soon became clear to Waver that they, too were subjected to the traditional bias of this old feudal system, deferring and fawning to those with superior circuits while completely ignoring those, like Waver, whose intellect far surpassed their circuit numbers.

For all his academic success, for all his theories and his flawless theses and research, he was still ignored for a few mediocre minds who simply possessed greater prestige and natural talent.

It was this injustice that caused Waver to start his own research. In his own time, between his regular studies, he began compiling information, spending long hours in the Association's library.

Slowly, he began compiling the results of his studies into a dissertation, a dissertation that he finally finished in his last undergraduate year.

He titled it "An Inquiry of Magecraft's Path In the New Century," an innocuous title for a paper that would proceed to attack everything that the Association had prided for the last millennia—bloodline, heritage, honor.

This current system was archaic and obsolete, long since abandoned by academia outside of the association. It limited the opportunities of those who were separated simply by birth and fostered intellectual stagnation.

It was this stagnation that had allowed the outside scientific world to end so many of the old Magics[8], reducing them to mere magecraft. Built from four years of dedicated study, the Thesis would have been flawlessly written, even from the point of view of an Ivy League College, with a vision of a Magus Association drastically different from what currently held sway. If presented to the Association's Board of Directors, it could have caused quite a bit of controversy.

But it never got that far.

He had submitted it to his instructor and the man who would write his recommendation, a Lord Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald. Known for its wealth even outside of the Magus world, the Archibalds boasted nine generations of meteoric magic circuit growth. Kayneth, in question, engaged to the College Principal's daughter, was a shining star seen by most of the association's leadership as the head of a new generation of magus. And for good reason. Born with an immense amount of magic circuits and a prodigy with seemingly limitless talent, El-melloi was a Professor only five years Velvet's senior, with Doctorates in not simply his preferred subject (Spiritual Evocation), but also in Summoning and Alchemy.

In the nonmagus world, he would be the person with a 2400 on his SATs who got through Medical School, Engineering College and a Mathematics degree at the same time by pure talent, without an ounce of effort.

He represented everything Waver Velvet despised, a man who had managed to coast through on pure talent, without the hard work that Waver and so many of the lower magus put in with so little result.

But he had seemed relatively open to Waver's research and knew of his countless contributions to Magus academia.

If there was anyone who could provide the intellectual backing for Waver's thesis, it would be Lord Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi.

One day, in lecture, El-Melloi had suddenly brought out a sheaf of papers.

"Recently," he began pleasantly, "I received a dissertation from one of my students, a certain Waver Velvet."

Waver froze. _Could it be?_ The class instantly hushed. Waver did not have many friends, but most of the school knew of his research.

"It was labeled 'An Inquiry of Magecraft's Path In the New Century.' Within this paper, he argued that bloodline should not be the basis for academic advancement, but one's ability to contribute to the association. Even a low-level magus with one or two circuits, with a proper intellect, can help increase the association's prestige. 'Not all men are created equal—but this fact renders the oppression of those with lower talent by those with greater power all the more inexcusable.'"

Lord El-Melloi looked around the silent class, all of which waited in trepidation as he smiled gently.

And then, with one tear, Lord-El Melloi tore the sheaf of paper into two. As Waver watched in shock, the man ignited both halves, dropping them onto the floor before grinding them under his heel.

Waver felt as if he had been ground under somebody's heel.

"I had great hopes for Waver despite his low birth—he seemed to be aware of his limitations, and he has always been a respectful student who has contributed much to this class through his research.

But I must confess that I am severely disappointed by this paper," Kayneth said cheerily.

"All the while that you convinced your superiors of your sincerity, you have been writing some halfwitted dissertation that undermines the very nature of our noble institution.

Had you not shown me this, Waver, I would have happily recommended you to my research team at the Department of Eulyphis. I reconsider that now."

Kayneth smiled at Waver a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"A man who gives in to delusions such as yourself is not suited for research, Waver."

Waver simply stared, his hand shaking.

"The lesson of this, class, can be summed up by a quote from Mark Twain—'Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.'"

For a moment, there was silence until some of the more highborn students began chuckling. And, gradually, the other students, eager to curry favor with their more talented peers, laughed as well—until, finally, the whole class was laughing at the poor joke.

Waver sunk into his seat, too ashamed even to point out that Kayneth had misquoted Senator Abraham Lincoln.

It was the most humiliating day in Waver's life.

* * *

><p>From that day on, Waver stopped attending Archibald's classes. In fact, he stopped going to most of his classes. The valedictorian of the class of 2010 remained in the library and the dorms, too ashamed to head to his classes.<p>

He simmered in his shame and rage.

Waver's well-researched thesis had been trodden on not for any logical fallacy, but simply by authority.

That was not justice.

That was not fair.

Lord El-Melloi was an intelligent man—there was no way he could not have seen the truth in Waver's thesis.

He had simply been afraid and jealous. Afraid of the changes that the thesis would wreak on the Association. Jealous of Waver's intellect.

Gradually, Waver Velvet's shame changed into hatred—hatred for the Magus Association he now saw as corrupt and all it had represented, hatred for all that had ever attracted him to this college in Boston when he could have been an upstanding member of nonmagus society.

And, most importantly, hatred for the man who represented it all, Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi.

And, in his time shut in the library, he picked up whispers in the wind from the professors who shuffled in and out.

It seemed as if Lord El-Melloi was preparing to embark on a journey to the Far East to pursue some kind of trial of magic, simply for his pride and vanity.

In the library, Waver began researching this war.

A Holy Grail War, one of the many that occurred all over the world.

One in which seven masters, each with a summoned heroic spirit, strove to obtain the wish-granting "Holy Grail".

Many magus had joined these wars—the twin heirs of the Scandinavian Edelfelts; the German Von Einzburn; even, in the past, a Bartolomei. Few had survived, many defeated by weaker magus houses such as the Far Eastern Tohsaka.

And, Waver Velvet came to realize that this war was exactly what he was looking for.

A battle where rank and status no longer mattered—only skill.

Given, it was kind of barbaric, even for that land of Samurai and Ninjas and bombing Pearl Harbors—but for someone completely confident in his genius and talent, it was the ideal arena for superiority.

* * *

><p>And, as it turned out, the gods had blessed Waver Velvet with a spectacular stroke of luck.<p>

It was a mistake on the part of the Financial Department. Carelessly, they had sent an artifact from Jerusalem not in person, but via conventional Air Mail.

And for magus, who as a rule despised modern technology as inferior, something as mundane as an Air Delivery Company was completely outlandish.

And so, they sent Waver Velvet, who had been raised outside the land of the magus, to retrieve the object.

Anyone who had no knowledge of Heaven's Feel, the Holy Grail War, would have seen nothing special in that wrapped package—it showed no particular magic power, and it displayed no splendor. It was simply a piece of rock, no different from anything you could pick up from a quarry.

But Waver Velvet knew what it was. It was a catalyst, a link to a heroic spirit that would facilitate a summoning of that heroic spirit[9] as a servant.

Immediately, he left, taking a bus to New York City and then taking a cab to RFK Airport.

The Association immediately knew who had stolen the artifact—but nobody sent anybody after him. After all, he was simply a low-tiered magus who had no knowledge of Heaven's Feel. Even if he did, no low-tier magus would presume to stand toe-to-toe with the most powerful magus in the world.

The magus association had truly underestimated Waver Velvet.

He had a catalyst and the qualities of a magus—there was no way the grail could have ignored him.

And now he had been graced with the Command Seals that demonstrated the Grail's decision to accept him as a Master.

He would prove in front of his master and the association that he was truly a genius. This war would be his vindication.

Waver glanced up at the TV screen in front of the seats. After this plane landed in California, he would have to take another plane to Japan. So he may as well rest for the time.

Waver Velvet closed his eyes as the plane flew towards his destiny.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter Notes – If You're Interested Enough<span>**

* * *

><p><span>[1]Zayde<span> – Yiddish for Grandfather. Monica's grandfather, Iser Kruszewski, is a Polish Jew, and as such he speaks in Yiddish, a mix of Germanic, Slavic, Aramaic and early Hebrew spoken by Jewish Communities through Central and Eastern Europe. Most of these early communities were destroyed by Pogroms and Holocaust in our world. Iser uses a lot of Yiddish terms.

[2]Polish Cavalry Charging Tanks – it happened. When Germany and the USSR invaded Poland in 1939 with tanks and planes, Poland, which has a long history of cavalry combat, sent soldiers on horses at them. It wasn't as suicidal as it seemed (they generally were supported by light armor and had access to anti-tank rifles). During all of World War II, there are 16 recorded Cavalry Charges, some of them against tank companies, but mostly against infantry. 15 of them were successful.

[3]Polish Slang – All of these words are Polish swearwords, none of them particularly kind. Look them up if you want to.

[4]Training Exercise – Once again, this is based on a real thing, an exercise that members of the United States Air force Academy take part of. Basically, you're supposed to be a pilot shot down in an enemy territory, actually a corner of the United States, populated by villages that may be friendly, hostile or apathetic to the downed Air Force Cadets. Eventually, all of them are captured and are subjected to great psychological torture. Even the liberation by United States Military Officers is reenacted. You can find more details about the training regimen in "Here's What We'll Say", by Reichen Lehmkuhl.

[5]The Imperial Senate and the Britannian Government – It was a shock when I found out too, but the Holy Empire of Britannia is not actually an absolute monarchy, but at the very least a constitutional monarchy. One of Rollo's targets, Senator Helmsley, was an Imperial Senator who was killed near the Tennessee State Legislature, implying that on a local level there is some level of self-rule, at least in America (and the term is America, it existed long before the Revolutionary War). It's not weak either—after all, Schneizel isn't the prime minister of nothing. In the spinoff novel Nightmare of Nunnaly (Nunnaly gets a geass and a ridiculously powerful knightmare, as interesting as it sounds), Schneizel approaches Charles and reveals that together, the two houses of the Britannian Legislature (the House of Lords and the Imperial Senate) can overrule even the Emperor's Decisions. Of course, Charles gets around this by dissolving both the senate (Chapter 20, page 7) and arresting Schneizel (Schneizel has expected this, though, and an unexpected individual becomes a new Emperor/Empress of Britannia). The rest come from light novels that I haven't really read too much, but what is clear is that, to some extent, Britannia resembles modern America.

[6]Wampum – Wampum is essentially a belt made of thousands of handmade shellfish shells made by the Natives of the North Atlantic Coast. Tiresome to make at the time, wampum were used to record information and as commemorations. While the Beads are not worth much, the wampum itself was often used as a substitute for money by natives and the early Dutch and British Settlers of New York and New England. Wampum is also considered sacred and a badge of office.

[7]Sepoy Rebellion – a rebellion by Indian Sepoys (British-trained Indian Infantry) after the British made them use musket cartridges with pig and cow fat on it, a cunning move that served to piss off every muslim and hindu within India. Or, in other words, all of India. The British Forces led by the British East India Company were pretty soundly defeated until reinforcements came from the Actual British Army. Since the British Isles fell and Britannia was busy expanding into North America, the East India Company was probably isolated and fell to the Sepoys, and were then promptly scooped up by China.

[8] Magic and Magecraft – There is actually a difference. In Kinoko Nasu's nasuverse, Magic is what cannot be accomplished without the use of magecraft or prana (through Science), while magecraft is simply the imitation of a process that can be reproduced in a laboratory with sufficient resources. Of course, in the past there were many magics—but after the scientific revolution in the 1700's, there are only five Magics that remain. The Von Einzburns used to be the practitioners of the Third Magic, the Materialization of the Soul. But you'll learn more about that later, though feel free to look it up at the type-moon wiki.

[9] Catalysts – People who have just watched the anime will be a little "wut" about this, but nearly all servants are summoned with a catalyst and EVERY servant is summoned with a magic circle. Shirou's catalyst (Avalon) was inside him, and the magic circle was in the shed, used by Kiritsugu. So any fanfic where a servant just shows up in the middle of nowhere is actually incorrect. It's not a major problem, though.

* * *

><p><strong>-Afterword, Q&amp;A-<strong>

**With 75% of my stockpiled prologues, it's back to writing. Once again I have to thank HeavyValor for posting a shoutout from fate/nightmare apatheia - on the day he did it, I suddenly got a rather large jump in readership that I can only attribute to his advertising. In the meantime, I'm happy to have finally received the long-awaited reviews, allowing me to address/explain anything unclear. Once again, if you have any questions or concerns, you are welcome (in fact i implore you to) state your views, whether on the chapter, the general direction of the fic or otherwise. In the meantime, I'll start by addressing the current reviews. **

**Aiur - I'm glad you're impressed with the current writing, and I also was really thankful for your reviews while this story was in the works. I'm no great shakes at pre-renaissance history, so I really do thank you for your correction. I was not at all aware of this, and I have edited the story to replace England with Britain. The deliberate historical dissonances that Nasu causes in arraying Saber in plate armor and the use of knights was kind of unfortunate, and in fact I was in line to make a few poor decisions during the writing - in fact, I considered introducing an Archetype Arturia as a Welsh character, in accordance with actual history. However, thanks to HeavyValor's strenuous (and, in retrospect, completely merited) objections, I did end up using regular Saber. In the meantime, thank you for your help, and I hope you continue reading!  
><strong>

**AngrySanto - To you, as well, I'm grateful for the review and the corrections. Your review of my pilots, like Aiur's, was one of the things that convinced me to go ahead with Fate/Zero Eos. When I imported the chapter from MS Word, the formatting was, for some reason, completely lost, and in a rushed job I simply tried to restore the formatting, and I missed a lot of things as a result that you pointed out. I have corrected and solved those issues, and I thank you for pointing it out. In the case of Kiritisugu talking, HeavyValor had brought it up at one point too, that it seemed a little anticlimactic - and, given that I had neglected the fact that Saber and Kiritsugu didn't interact much, the sentence is both somewhat extraneous, so I have removed it. In the case of Mordred, I did get carried away a little and ignored the actual events as a result. I hope it wasn't too offensive or ambitious a leap of literary license. I look forward to your next review, and I hope you read on!  
><strong>

**EVA-Saiyajin - To be completely honest, I really don't know why I chose to have her referred to as Arturia even when she was known as a man. I have fixed it to fit the (far more realistic) use of Arthur instead. Thanks for the heads-up, and I'm happy that you are currently enjoying the story. Hopefully, I won't make that kind of mistake again!**

**sslayeralbion - Thank you for your review, and I appreciate that you took the time to write a review in a language that's not your own. "Dun Goofed" isn't really english, it's just slang for having messed something up, while Fate/Nightmare Apatheia is the fanfiction that is the sequel to this story (Rather, fate/zero eos is the prequel). It's an M-rated (only for violence) crossover between Code Geass and Fate/Stay Night, following the official story, and it's written by a personal friend of mine, HeavyValor. His writing is better (and farther along) than mine, and some of the Original Characters in this story are also characters in his. You are, though, correct in that Guan Ling will be trying to summon Guan Yu, a character from the three kingdoms. Look forwards ot it!  
><strong>

**Xoroth**** - Thanks for the review, and yep, Guan Yu will be summoned, though his class...well, many nonchinese fans of the Romance of the Three kingdoms don't realize, but Red Hare wasn't only owned by Lu Bu. And while each of them are fulfilling roles shown in Fate/Zero, there'll be a lot of changes in Lineup for the servants. I hope you keep reading!**


	7. 2 Months Ago: New Year at the Kururugis'

**-Preface-**

**Well, this week was a little quiet review-wise, only two reviews, though both of them were very informative. These two are the last of the premade prologues,**

**with only 2 more to go. This will, of course, mean that writing speed will slow down. As a college student, I am entering finals week, and so I may only be able to **

**release one of the prologues next weekend. I apologize if it's a little underwhelming, but I will try to make it up as much as possible as soon as my semester ends. **

**Thanks! - Mr. Sparkles**

* * *

><p><strong>-New Year at the Kururugis'-<strong>

_"May all your troubles last as long as your New Year's resolutions."_

-Joey Adams

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

**January 1st, Ascension Throne Britannia 2010**

**Kururugi Family Shrine**

**Mt. Fuji, Honshu, Nation of Japan**

The driver of the black Sedan felt as if he was driving in a battlefield.

To be honest, he was tempted to turn on the radio or to play some music, but something about the tension in the air told him that he was better off leaving the dashboard untouched.

Truly, as the proverb went, "serving a prince is like sleeping with a tiger."

It was best for a mere driver to stay out of the battles of the Fujimura family.

The battle that had started the drive from Homubara High School had long since devolved into a Cold War between the two Fujimuras.

Fujimura Taiga stared out the window angrily, displeasure clear on her face. The hakama she still wore, the tiger-print wooden _shinai_ and the slight tang of sweat made it quite obvious where she had been moments before her pickup.

Next to her, her grandfather looked forbiddingly calm as he leaned on his staff. Fujimura Raiga had personally stalked into Homubara and dragged his granddaughter out of the Kendo club. His anger had only cooled slightly since then.

"Tell me, Fujyou," Raiga growled to the driver, "Why the daughter of my favorite son turns out to be so utterly unlady like, so useless?"

"Dad was your ONLY son," Taiga snapped back as the Driver remained silent.

"Hence my favorite. At least he didn't have any trouble getting married."

"A good husband will accept me for who I am," Taiga grumbled in return.

"I don't think such a man exists," Raiga muttered under his breath as the car continued up the mountain road.

* * *

><p>A thin layer of snow covered the Kururugi Clan Compound, remnants of the snows from two days ago.<p>

The soldiers at the compound gate didn't seem perturbed as they saluted to the Fujimura sedan.

Given, these soldiers were not part of the Japanese Self-Defense Forces—their dull-green, conservative uniforms and their weapons ( Japan-manufactured models, as opposed to the JSDF's EU-manufactured variants and old-fashioned swords ) harkened back to an older era.

But, in the eyes of many Japanese, they carried far more legitimacy than the New Army based nearby in Tokyo.

For these were the Old Guard, the last remnants of the Pacific War.

Just like the facility they guarded, the Old Guard reminded most Japanese of a time where Japan was a world power capable of humiliating Britannia, the Chinese Federation and the E.U. at the same time.

Given, that old Imperial Military Government had pursued some questionable policies—most Japanese preferred to change the subject when reminded of the brutalities they had inflicted on the citizens of the Chinese Federation [1] and the Pacific Islands, or the military coups associated with the time—but even so, most Japanese saw that government as far more legitimate than the squabbling civilian government that had held power since the Dishonor of Yokohama.

And, in a way, the Driver realized as they drove inside, they WERE the legitimate government.

After all, this was a meeting convened by the Prime Minister of Japan, for the most powerful men of Japan.

After all, here was Fujimura Raiga, one of the most powerful businessmen of Japan, a member of the Kyoto Group that dominated Japanese finances.

The men and women assembled in this quaint home was, the driver conceded as Fujimura Raiga and his daughter exited, the true government of Japan.

Fujimura Taiga strode past the talking politicians and businessmen without a second thought.

A few of them frowned as the light whiff of cold sweat brushed past them. Taiga didn't notice, and she wouldn't have cared even if she had.

The Kururugi family home was nearly a second home to her—and you should be able to wear whatever want to wear at home.

Ignoring the indignant ministers, she walked through the wooden walkways while calling in no particular direction.

"Oy, Suzaku! Suuuuzzaaaaaakkkuuuuuuuu!"

"He's out in the courtyard practicing with Todoh," a bored voice came from behind her.

Taiga turned to the dark-haired boy leaning against a pillar. Unlike everyone else in the compound, he looked European or Britannian, with perceptive purple eyes that looked a lot older than his years.

He was around 10 or 11, with nearly shoulder-length dark hair and a face that would have been adorable had it not looked so supremely uninterested, like a king unimpressed by a court jester.

The kid had shown up last year, and most people weren't exactly sure who he was. Though there had been quite a lot of buzz on his arrival, most of the staff at the Kururugi residence had settled on a state of enlightened neglect, providing for the kid and his sister's needs while doing their best to leave their existence unacknowledged.

Personally, Taiga disliked that kind of attitude. Though she wasn't exactly the kid's best friend, she was willing to talk with him once in a while.

"Why don't ye join him? Kendo's a noble sport, you know…" Taiga swept back her hakama's sleeve as she bunched her hand into a fist. "I can teach you, you know. To beat the snot out of Suzaku."

The boy looked a little scared.

"Erm, it's alright, I'm not one for physical exertions—"

"YOU CAN BEAT HIM!"

"Err—"

"YOU'RE GONNA EAT LIGHTNING, AND YOU'RE GONNA CRAP THUNDER![2]"

The boy winced a little at the mincemeat she had made out of English Rocky Quote as he ran off.

"ADRIIIAANNNNNNNNNNNN,[2]" Taiga called to his receding back before sighing resignedly.

"Wuss."

* * *

><p>The loud cracks of bamboo on bamboo resounded from the courtyard.<p>

Taiga ran in without a second thought—the sound of a kendo match excited her.

In the courtyard, a boy with tousled brown hair was struggling against a tall, emotionless man, also in a Hakama.

"So Cool," Taiga murmured to herself as she watched Kyoshiro Tohdoh effortlessly parry Suzaku's attacks. It had been Tohdoh who had first inspired Taiga to learn Kendo—the way he managed to always remain perfectly serene in battle, like the calm in a storm.

Tohdoh was probably the only individual Taiga was still willing to call Master.

Suzaku Kururugi, meanwhile, was slowly wearing out with each attack. The pants between each strike and the sweat that flew off him showed that he was near his limit.

"This is pretty much done," Taiga muttered.

"Is that you, Fujimura-_san_?"

Taiga blinked at the unfamiliar honorific. She turned—and noticed the auburn-haired that had been sitting next to her.

"Erm, you were…Nunnally, right?"

The girl looked up at her—well, faced her. Her eyes remained firmly closed. Nunnally, after all, was completely blind. Nevertheless, the radiant smile she gave to Taiga seemed to give weight to the illusion that she could see.

"I'm glad you remember, Fujimura-_san_."

"Ehe,he, thanks," Taiga said with a slightly blush. This girl was the only one who would refer to Taiga with an honorific. But for some reason, Taiga couldn't be herself around this girl. She wasn't quite sure why—but there was something ephemeral about Nunnally.

Unlike Suzaku and her brother, Nunnally just looked fragile, like a piece of glass at a jewelry shop.

She and a boisterous, clumsy individual such as Taiga were probably just incompatible with each other.

"Oy! Suzaku!" Taiga called. Surprised, Suzaku turned—just as, with a fairly loud crack, the bamboo Shinai echoed on his shoulder.

"Don't be so easily distracted," Tohdoh admonished before turning to Taiga. "Ah, Fujimura."

"Oy, Master!" Taiga cheerfully bowed as she walked over to Suzaku, tousling his sweaty hair to form a bigger tangle than was normal.

"Stop that," Suzaku complained angrily, but Taiga simply grinned and continued doing it as she turned to Todoh. "Any chance you would give me the chance to spar you today, master?"

Todoh thought about it, his face as expressionless as always. "Sorry, Fujimura, but not today. Instead, why don't you have a match with Suzaku? He still has quite a lot to learn."

"I don't want to spar with the Tiger—" Suzaku whined—and then stopped when he caught sight of Taiga's expression.

"…what did you just call me…?"

Suzaku froze. "Erm."

With a bright smile, Taiga gave a thumbs up to Tohdoh. "Of course, Master! Leave it to me!"

Even Tohdoh felt a slight chill in the frigid winter air.

Fujimura "Tiger" Taiga slowly unwrapped her yellow-and-black Bamboo Shinai as she pulled back her sleeves with a wicked smile.

"Don't worry, Suzaku…I'll be gentle."

Something in the smile told Suzaku she'd be anything but.

* * *

><p>Kyoshiro Tohdoh walked away from the yelps of pain the courtyard. Suzaku would learn a good lesson about holding his tongue, a lesson that both he and his best friend, the Caucasian boy, would do well to learn.<p>

"Ah, there you are, Tohdoh."

Tohdoh turned—and instantly snapped to attention as a man in graying hair and an old Imperial Japanese Army uniform walked up to him.

At over 80, General Seishiro Nagano still stood tall, a well-built body that required no cane. Like Tohdoh, he served the Old Guard—the portion of the Japanese Army still loyal to the family of the old Emperor.

Indeed, he was in many ways the founder.

General Nagano was one of the last survivors of the Old Guard, the officers that supported Japan's military government during the Second Pacific War.

Following D-day, the Britannian Landing in Yokohama harbor, the Civilian Government had forced the Emperor to capitulate, handing over Emperor Hirohito and most of the Old Guard's senior leadership into the hands of Lord MacArthur's Britannian Army.

Nagano had been one of the few who had survived the war and the aftershocks, returning to Japan after the Britannians were compelled to withdraw through international pressure by China and the EU.

It was Nagano and these survivors who rekindled the flames of nationalism, appealing to those in Japan still loyal to the Emperor and the remnants of the dissolved Imperial Japanese Army and forming the National Conservative Party, a party devoted to the preservation of Japan's old cultural values.

At a time where Japan largely developed under Britannian influence, the National Conservative Party found many allies in more conservative Japanese who saw Britannian influence as a cancer on their traditional culture, forming the Shadow Government[3] that commanded far more loyalty than the official government.

As of now, General Nagano was the head of the Old Guard's Armed forces, and Tohdoh's superior and mentor.

"At ease," the general ordered, and Tohdoh relaxed his stance—but only slightly.

"Major General Senba sends his greetings," Tohdoh said with a bow as he fell in behind the General.

Nagano chuckled. "Senba…that old raccoon is still alive? How're things at the Academy?"

"Well, sir." When he was not at the Kururugi shrine, Tohdoh taught military history at the Imperial Officer's Academy on the island of Itsukushiima, offshore from Hiroshima. "The Major General is doing his best to accelerate officer's training."

"Good," General Nagano replied as he walked through a screen door to where a group of men in uniform stood assembled. Nagano motioned to a man wearing the cobalt green and Britannian-like uniform of the Japanese Self Defense Forces.

"This is Major General Katase Tatewaki, our contact with the JSDF," Nagano explained as he introduced the man, a man with mildly graying hair in his midforties and a fairly bushy brow. He extended a hand in greeting, though neither he nor Tohdoh bothered to smile. Between military officers, neither of them were fans of empty formalities.

Major General Katase immediately launched into business. "We're hoping that the academy can get troops out by March."

Tohdoh blinked. The current cadets of the Officer's Academy weren't intended to graduate until May. This kind of acceleration had only happened once before—before Japanese forces had launched that fateful attack on the headquarters of the Britannian Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor during the last war.

"…So it's war?"

Nagano chuckled. "War's been on the horizon for a while. Intel given to us by the French tells us that the Britannians are planning an attack somewhere east. It might be China, or Korea, or the Philippines…but I'm willing to bet it's here."

Tohdoh watched the politicians outside. Nothing about their demeanor suggested that much urgency.

"How ready are we?"

Katase shrugged. "I'd like to think we're ready. Prime Minister Kururugi's aware of the danger. The Chinese are right behind us on this one—they're eager to take back Annam and southern Korea. The EU's not in a position to help, but they did send us some of their money. If Britannia's finances are as fragile as we think they are, they'll be at the negotiating table by April."

Nagano snorted. "Negotiating table? The Britannians don't know about negotiating. I'm betting they're going to launch an attack before that happens."

"General Oguchi's convinced the target is going to be India," Katase remarked.

"That's why General Oguchi and I are on such bad terms," Nagano replied. The bad blood between General Oguchi, commander in chief of the JSDF and all government forces, and "General" Nagano, leader of the paramilitary Old Guard, was legendary. Oguchi, as the representative of the Britannian-inspired "New Army," saw the Old Guard as loose cannons, relics of an older era, and had made it clear when he had the defense department cut all military subsidies to the Old Guard. Nagano and the Old Guard, on the other hand, regarded the New Army as shoddy imitations of Britannian forces incapable of anything but parades.

"…and that's why we need Major General Senba's officers out as soon as possible," Nagano finished. "We may not have the Armor or air assets that the JSDF have, but we have the forewarning and training they don't. I'm not saying the JSDF will fail…" something about the way Nagano said that made it very clear that failure was the only thing he expected of Japan's government army.

"Yes, sir. We'll do what we can."

General Nagano nodded as he put a hand on the pommel of the ceremonial sword he wore by his side, a warrior ready for battle.

"Now, let's greet General Oguchi."

* * *

><p>Only a few buildings away from the party, a completely sober meeting was occurring in a small living room.<p>

Six people knelt around a table, catered with only a few snacks and a pot of warmed tea.

It could well have been a group of elderly meeting for a game of supermarket bingo for a few old grocery items.

But the fact was that these six men held what was probably over half of Japan's gross GDP.

Hidenobu Kubouin, head of the Kubouin Zaibatsu[4] that dominated Japan's banking sector.

Tousai Munakata, CEO of what was easily the largest real estate broker in Japan.

Tatsunori Osakabe, leader of Japan's growing manufacturing center.

Fujimura Raiga, head of the Fujimura Group, the family that ran Japan's shipping industry.

Matou Zouken, CEO of Japan National Mining, Japan's powerful national Sakuradite-mining industry.

Genbu Kururugi, Prime Minister of Japan.

These six men [5] represented six of the seven most powerful houses in Japan, the seven men that formed Kyoto House. The rhetoric and machinations of the Diet in Tokyo meant nothing. It was these six men that determined Japan's policy.

Of the six, Genbu Kururugi was easily the largest. Well-built even in his late forties, Genbu was the host and head of this meeting. Even among these powerful men, he dominated the flow of conversation.

"Zouken, what is the state of Britannian finances? How are sanctions looking?"

"The international sanctions are starting to hurt, but in the Sakuradite sector, Britannia still has a huge strategic reserve from their past as a Sakuradite-producing state. That should be able to cushion the economic impact well into march," replied Matou Zouken, a withered looking elderly man with grey, leathery skin and dark, shadowed eyes.

"It's not making a huge difference," Fujimura Raiga noted. Kururugi had never met the Russian mythological witch known as the baba yaga, but he strongly suspected that she resembled Fujimura Raiga. Perhaps it was his underground contacts, but Fujimura Raiga's face was known to scare little children, and the tiger-print haori didn't help his image much. "From what I heard from my contacts underground, the Britannians or britannian-related enterprises are snatching up all the Sakuradite on the Black Market. Up front cash, unmarked bills. They're definitely planning something."

Kubouin sniffed. "Likely scrabbling a few last nuts for the winter, the rats." A descendant of Japan's old Kazoku nobility, he wore the traditional frock and attitudes of the old nobility.

"I'm thinking it's for war," Munakata responded. Unlike the other old men, Munakata had a full head of gray facial hair and a suit that hadn't been popular since the turn of the century. "That M-33 tank takes quite a bit of sakuradite, doesn't it?"

"…this amount of sakuradite would be enough to give an M-33 to every family in Japan," Raiga replied.

"Hence why attributing this to an arms rush is ridiculous, Munakata," Kubouin insisted.

"…Raiga, try to buy up all the Sakuradite from the black market before they can get anymore, that should put a hold on whatever they're planning," Genbu cut in firmly. "Meanwhile, we have to look at the possibility of defending the Japanese homeland. Osakabe, how's production?"

Osakabe, a tall, silent man in a cloak and an old suit, finally spoke with a deep, calming voice. "If we factor in Zouken's Sakuradite transfer, we can finish the _Yamada_ aircraft carrier by the end of this month. We're ramping up the production of our tanks, but specwise, they're still inferior to Britannian M-33 Clintons…"

Raiga nodded

"I've negotiated the sale of 40 of Germany's new Panzer-Wulfs. The vast majority of the Britannian Army still uses traditional M-1 Bradleys, so with the Panzer-Wulfs we should be able to hold them on home soil."

"Sawasaki's said the Chinese will be buying us time with a major offensive in Siam (Annam / Indochina / Vietnam, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, etc.), so Britannian forces should be divided enough to limit the damage," Genbu added.

"With political pressure from the EU and China and our own defense, Japan should be ready for any attack from Britannia," Munakata confirmed.

Genbu smiled.

"Excellent. We've come a long way, men. Japan's come a long way. We've went from a nation cringing under Britannia's influence to a nation that can stand against Britannia itself. When Britannia succumbs, we will truly become a world power again. The same world power that once struck fear in the hearts of every other great power, and will do so again. Let's keep on going. For a brighter, stronger Japan."

"For a brighter, stronger japan," the other members echoed in the silence.

* * *

><p>"…Thank you for your time, General Oguchi, you'll likely see a few of them in tonight's broadcast."<p>

Matou Kariya smiled graciously until the middle-aged general turned away to talk to a forbidding-looking old man in Old Guard uniform. As soon as his attention was turned, Kariya sighed as he mopped his brow.

"Goodness, Inoue, I'm no good at these interviews, am I?"

"I thought that was pretty good, Mr. Matou[6]."

Kariya smiled a tired smile to his intern. "Inoue, I told you, Kariya is fine."

At 18, Inoue Naomi characterized many an intern on their first job—polite, quiet, and a little too eager to please.

New interns always seemed nervous, as if they knew they had done something wrong but wasn't sure what that was.

In a way, she reminded him of when he, too, had been an intern on the Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai, the Japanese National Broadcasting Corporation.

Being a reporter was a tiring, thankless job, one that required long hours and didn't always pay its worth.

But Kariya wasn't ungrateful—in fact, he truly cherished this job. Especially when his future could have been so much different.

He shook his head. He had to ignore his past. Now was not a good time, when he had to smile to politician after politician.

But how could he, when that man was somewhere in this facility?

As a member of the press corps, Kariya had a good idea who was at this family compound, and he knew that that man was somewhere here.

Matou Zouken.

Head of the Matou house, and his "great-grandfather."

In fact, Kariya knew Zouken was not his great-grandfather. In the Matou clan's 250 years of history in Japan, there had always been a man known as Zouken in the family, constantly reinserted generation after generation.

Of course, though, Kariya hadn't been surprised.

After all, the Matou were a family of Magi.

And that was why Kariya detested them.

He had never known a mother—in fact, never even seen her. She had died at his birth.

Since his birth, he had been treated differently from his older brother, Byakuya. He was treated carefully—every minor accident required a hospital visit, all his food was carefully made from the best materials. He was judged for every single score he had, every single aspect of performance, from physical fitness to intelligence. When he was younger, he had not known why so many expectations were heaped upon him. He had simply worked to meet them.

And then, one day, he had found out from that man, Matou Zouken.

That he was a magus.

For centuries, the Matou house had waned, from one of Eurasia's greatest houses to a mere imitation, powerful only due to its vast collection of knowledge. Each generation, magic circuits vanished, vestigial organs that rotted away with each son.

It wasn't for lack of trying. Matou Zouken took it onto himself to ensure the survival of the line.

Kariya, it seemed was his success. Kariya was born with a full set of magic circuits—more than anything the Matou had for two centuries. In many ways, he was a prodigy.

At first, Kariya had been amazed, proud. Under his grandfather, he began his education through the Matou's many books.

Yet, gradually, he understood what had set him apart. He saw why his own brother Byakuya would stare at him with eyes of muted resentment. Why his family treated him as if he was their savior.

It was not because he was kind, nor because he worked hard, but simply because he had a few more magical nerves than his brother.

He had been proud—and yet he had been perplexed

Was being a magus so important?

And so he began researching on his own time. He started looking into the history of the Matou clan. And what he found shocked him, disgusted him.

How Matou Zouken, that kind old grandfather, had forced modification after modification onto countless wives of the matou house in an effort to scrabble onto the magic circuits that remained. He saw the chamber where so many of them had died, too weak to take the stress of the wretched parasitic worms Zouken implanted into them in the hopes of fostering greater bloodlines. He read about his own mother, why she had died in his birth. How she had gone mad long before he was born under the modifications and changes Zouken had enforced. The only difference between her and countless grandmothers, great-grandmothers and great-great-grandmothers of hte matou was that she had been a success.

On that day, Kariya realized what his "greatness" was based on. He could not even pin his abilities on the whims of genetic recombination, but on the blood, pain and tears of his late mothers and so many before her.

And, on that day, he gave up becoming a Magus.

His family first raged at him, and then cursed him, and then shunned and disowned him altogether.

Kariya didn't care.

He wanted nothing to do with that evil house whose name he bore.

He was taken in by the family of his childhood friend, Zenjou Aoi, and there he took up a job to support himself. He first worked at local stores at minimum wage to pay for a university education. When he paid off the Zenjous, he studied for a career in journalism and landed himself a job as a reporter for the NHK.

Living near Aoi, with a steady job, he felt as if he had finally put magecraft behind. He didn't feel any need to tell anyone.

And then, one day, Aoi told him she was getting married.

Of course, that hurt enough. She had never quite noticed how he felt about her, from middle school all the way into adulthood.

What hurt more was the prospect that it would be with a magus, a Tohsaka Tokiomi.

Kariya's first image was of what had happened to his mother.

Given, the Tokiomi were quite a bit more highborn than the Matou, but to be included in the world of the magus was going to be a different life from that of the average person, irrelevant in their ignorance.

She knew the pressures of being the wife of a magus.

She had seemed so deeply in love that he couldn't tell her to reconsider.

He regretted that to this day.

Instead, he moved out. Before the marriage could occur, he moved out to the city in Tokyo.

As he had done with his family, or his past as a magus, he had run away.

They had only seen each other two or three times since.

"Mr. Matou?"

Kariya blinked. His paper cup of water was slowly dribbling onto his suit.

"Errm…this is unfortunate" he smiled uncomfortably as he mopped his suit.

Inoue looked a little confused before smiling awkwardly. "Erm, yes."

"Say, Inoue…is there anything you really want to do in life?"

"Ummm…yes?"

"Make sure you do it."

Kariya sighed. The past was the past. He had to move on.

He'd likely be on tonight's news. It was better to get ready.

* * *

><p>It was night when Matou Zouken returned to his family home in Fuyuki. The Matou home was built quite pleasantly and luxuriously, with many windows to let in the sunlight.<p>

It was a policy for Zouken never to have them open.

The building inside was dim and cool. Though everything was in immaculate order, there was a thick layer of stagnant air that had settled on everything.

_How we have fallen_, Zouken thought to himself. He remembered a day when this compound had been filled with his family and those eager for the favor of one of the greatest magus houses in the world.

From the dining room, he could hear loud raspy snores.

Leaning on his staff, Zouken hobbled into the dining room where an unshaven man was slumped over the dining table with a bottle of Western Bacardi. Matou Byakuya was completely out, doused under a thick layer of alcohol fumes.

_Useless Swine. _

The legal heir of the Matou family may as well have been impotent for all Zouken cared.

It was with Matou Byakuya that the Matou line of magus had died out.

His son, Shinji, was just as useless.

And with Kariya gone, the Matou were now as useless as the people they once looked down to as swine.

This would be the first time since the formation of the Holy Grail War where a Matou would not be master.

Humiliating. Absolutely Humiliating, Zouken thought to himself as he walked through the dimly-lighted hallway.

A lone, diminutive figure stood at the window, watching the snow outside.

With dull, blank eyes, Tohs—Matou Sakura turned towards Zouken as he approached.

"Ah. Sakura."

The formerly precocious girl was now like a blank doll, her dark hair and blue eyes long since transmuted into a deep purple from the worm parasites in her veins.

It had been a year since the head of the Tohsaka house had dropped off one of his two daughters at the Matou household. It was a tradition in magecraft—only one individual could receive the magic crest, the accumulated magecraft of each house. If two members of a magus family had magus potential, it was likely that the other sibling could well become dissatisfied or manipulated into becoming a a source of discord within the Magus Clan. For the safety of both the sibling and the clan, siblings with magus potential would be adopted by other magus Clans. The Matou, who were facing their extinction as a magus clan, was more than happy to adopt Tohsaka Sakura.

Yet, for all her potential as a magus, Sakura's attribute was incompatible with the magecraft of the Matou.

And so, Zouken had inscribed the magic crest of the Matou into her body.

The Matou, whose erratic bloodline had long since discredited the use of a traditional thaumaturgical crest, use a unique type of magic crest that can be transmitted complete with magic circuits—parasitic creatrues designed by Zouken known as Crest Worms.

The implantation process is, as the idea of implanting countless worms into the human body seems, incredibly painful. It had taken four days for the girl to have fallen silent.

She hadn't talked much since.

Today, though, she would not be in the chamber with the worms.

Today was somebody else's turn.

Walking past Sakura, Zouken proceeded down the steps. Here the air warmed. The basement air was warm and wet, like the innards of some giant beast. A greenish glow filled the room. There was a thin layer of something on the ground—rotted organic matter? The walls were lined with catacombs—the tombs of countless Matou past. This basement was where countless Matou had died for Zouken's ideal of immortality. And, in the center, in an indent similar to a swimming pool, was one more victim.

Zouken smiled. For once, this was not an unwilling victim.

"Still alive, I see," Zouken said affably.

Surrounded by squirming crest worms, the figure inside said nothing.

Crest Worms were powerful tools—an individual with no training in magecraft could become a full-fledged magus in a year—but only if they survived. Crest Worms live on consuming the flesh of their host—those who play host to them have their lives cut to a few years, years of excoriating pain. Someone who played host to the crest worms clearly had a death wish.

"You remember the deal, correct? I give you a servant…"

Finally, a voice and a hand reached out of the mess of worms—a hand drawn and white, pulsating with varicose veins, accompanied by a raspy voice.

"…And…you give me…a Code…"

Zouken smiled a fatherly smile.

"Of Course."

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Notes – Extra Credit<strong>

* * *

><p>[1]Japanese War Crimes – I understand, as Anime fans, that we may want to ignore some of the things Japan may have done during World War II, and that Samurai and Ninja are all cool and all…but the fact is that Japan, like many other victorious nations in so many eras, inflicted great suffering on some subject populations, particularly in China (look up the Rape of Nanking) China lost at least 7 million Civilians to "military activity and crimes against humanities," and as much as 16 million. If China had inflicted the same casualties to Japan, it would have meant that more than 1 out of every 10 japanese civilians would have been killed. Singapore lost almost 7% of its population, while Oceania lost at least 3 million people. Imperial Japan may arouse many fond memories for the Japanese, in this world or theirs, but let's not forget that they, like so many civilizations, made mistakes, and in the case of World War II (the First Pacific War in the code geass timeline—this was the time at which the Emperor was deposed, hence the lack of an emperor in Code geass), they made mistakes that cost millions of civilian lives.<p>

[2] "You're gonna eat lightning, and you're gonna crap thunder" – a quote by Mick, Rocky Balboa's trainer, in Rocky 1. Adrian is Rocky Balboa's wife, and there are several scenes in the first three movies in which Sylvester Stallone just goes "ADDRRIIIIANNNNNNN"

[3] "Shadow Government" – I'm not trying to be cool here, the term stems from the "Shadow Ministry" in British politics—even though the most powerful party gets to nominate the prime minister and his/her cabinet in Parliament, the largest party that's not part of their coalition (the head of the Opposition) has a "Shadow Ministry", a "Shadow Prime minister" with its "Shadow Cabinet", the people that would be prime minister and his/her cabinet if the opposition were to gain power. In this case, this represents a false government in Japan that, while not internationally recognized, still holds ignificant power.

[4] Zaibatsu – think of it as a mix of a monopoly and a Mafia crime family. A Family that completely dominates a certain area through a family-run corporation. Like a criminal cartel except legal. These were pretty powerful in Japan until later economic reforms helped cut down on these powerful plutocracies.

[5] Where's Kirihara? – Shhhhh. Keep Reading Apatheia.

[6] Mr. Matou – sounds awkward as hell, but the Japanese equivalent is Matou-san. I just didn't want to overuse Japanese honorifics, since they often sound even more awkward.


	8. 2 Weeks Ago: Emiya

**-Emiya-**

_"Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories._"

-Terry McKay, _An Affair to Remember_

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

**January 20th, 2010 A.T.B.**

**Federal Republic of Germany**

**European Universe**

It was an unusually clear day for winter in the Alps. The sun shone clearly for the first time in many a day, and the grounds around the normally forbidding stone castle glowed with the reflected light. The snows of the night before had finally ceased, and a renewed frosting of white covered the ground, marred only by two sets of footprints.

"The buds are starting to sprout on the trees, mother!"

"Yes, Ilya…isn't it nice?"

With large, exaggerated steps, the silver haired-girl stalked through the snow that reached almost to her waist. With a bright smile, she craned her neck to peek at every little bud and branch in the frostbitten castle garden. Behind her, her mother smiled with a warmth that could have melted snow.

Emiya Kiritsugu smiled—a smile that carried more sadness than happiness.

To the unknowing bystander, Ilyasviel von Einzbern and Irisviel von Einzbern could have just been just any mother and daughter enjoying a lull in the endless winter of the Einzbern castle.

Kiritsugu would have given anything to make it that they were.

Grabbing the Heckler and Koch Mark 23 Semi-automatic .45 on a table next to him, Kiritsugu suddenly grabbed a magazine on the desk, slamming the magazine into the stock of the handgun. Without hesitation, he pulled back the slide and released, allowing it to snap back into place. Disengaging the safety, he aimed down the barrel at the wall across from him. For a moment, he stared intently—and then sighed.

_Too rusty._ A skilled soldier or special forces officer would have taken him down before he was finished.

Then again, it was only to be expected after nine years out of the field with only one break.

He glanced out the window at where his wife and daughter were frolicking in the snow.

He was glad Iri and Ilya were not inside—he didn't want them to see this part of him again.

The him that he had put away since meeting Iri.

Kiritsugu sighed again with a slight smile. Ilya and Iri had really made him soft. If he had acted how he had when he had first arrived, he wouldn't have cared.

He glanced outside once more. Ilya was in the snow, splashing snow at her mother, both laughing happily. Kiritsugu smiled affectionately—and then chuckled derisively.

What would the Emiya Kiritsugu from ten years ago, training children to carry out assassinations in the Middle East, have thought of the Emiya Kiritsugu today?

_The infamous Magus Killer, who had once killed whole families, presuming to hope for the ordinary happiness of a normal family? Just a killer past his prime, trying to play house_.

Was it wrong that he had a right to a family, no matter how long, when he had removed those rights from so many?

Outside, Ilya was pointing at a flower that pushed its hardy white petals out of the snow.

"Mother, what is this flower?"

"Ahhhh…that's an Edelweiss. It normally grows a certain distance up the mountains in spring. Your father planted this one.[1]"

One could almost hear Ilya's eyes widening with curiosity. "Really?"

Irisviel smiled fondly, her eyes looking at something faraway. "When you were born, your father went out alone. He spent a whole day looking for a sprout to take back. I still recall how he smiled when he came back…he was almost crying. He said you were his Edelweiss."

"That's so cool! I want to go get one too! Can we go, mother?"

"Let's wait until you're older," Iri replied with a laugh.

"But I wanna," Ilya pouted, puffing her cheeks in an attempt to look a bit more intimidating.

"Your father was in bed for a week afterwards with a cold, and he had to take medicine every day. You don't want that, do you?"

"Let's wait until I'm older," Ilya replied brightly, and all too quickly.

Kiritsugu smiled. Of course he had not fallen sick. Secluded in the Einzbern castle for the eight years of her life, Ilya hadn't learned to doubt people. It was a harmless lie anyway—better to make her think it were the truth.

The Edelweiss, the Noble White flower (Author: That's what it means in German)—a short-lived, small flower that bloomed a beautiful white flower among the vicious snows of the alps.

Unfortunately, it described Ilya perfectly.

Ilyasviel von Einzbern would likely stop growing before she reached puberty.

Kiritsugu tried to suppress the bitter pain that gripped his chest at the thought.

Ilya, his daughter, had already been robbed of her adulthood—and, in mere weeks, Kiritsugu would rob her of her mother in the Holy Grail War.

That was the destiny of all of the Einzbern Homunculus.

The elders of the Einzbern had not given them Ilya out of the goodness of their hearts—her stunted growth resulted from the thousand modifications that these thousand-year masters of alchemy had wrought in Irisviel's womb. Ilya, to the Von Einzbern, was simply a huge magic circuit maintained by a living body.

And yet, Kiritsugu could not shy away from this fight, the battle that would take away the life of his wife and his daughter's mother.

Ilya was, in a way, the backup, the one who would be sacrificed were Kiritsugu and Iri to fail to retrieve the grail.

And that was why Emiya Kiritsugu cannot fail.

_For Ilya…I have to win. At any cost._

Methodically, Kiritsugu disassembled his handgun.

With forced efficiency, he began reassembling the pistol.

* * *

><p>It was night in the forest when Kiritsugu entered the chapel.<p>

The word chapel, of course, is a misnomer—no religious services have ever been held in this chamber, as reminiscent as it was to the inside of a church.

This is a sacrificial chamber, a chamber where ceremonies are enacted.

The stained glass depicted not bible stories, but the thousand year history of the Von Einzbern's search for the miracle they had once held.

The picture of the founding of the Holy Grail Wars depicted Justizia Lizrich von Einzbern, Archmagus and the greatest of the Von Einzbern magus, a majestic being clothed in white. On both sides, she was attended by two fawning magus, the Tohsaka and the Matou. It was a very clear sign of what the Von Einzbern thought of their oriental counterparts.

The Einzbern had sought the grail as long as they could remember, confined in a self-imposed exile deep in the mountains of Germany, accepting no help and lending none to others.

Having found no result, the Einzbern grudgingly agreed to work with two magus families of the far east; the Makiri, still one of the most powerful Magus houses of East Asia, and Tohsaka, guardians of the strongest spiritual land of the Far East.

Yet when their grail was built, the other two houses were unwilling to relinquish the grail that the Von Einzbern saw as their birthright. For the Von Einzbern, who had sacrificed their greatest magus for the sake of the grail, this was base betrayal. And so began the Holy Grail wars.

The Von Einzbern twisted rules, broke regulations, wasted no expense to obtain the grail, the symbol that their thousand year struggle was not in vain.

And yet, time, time and time again, the Von Einzbern faltered. Alchemists and Academics, their style of magic was not suited for battle as the grail eluded them time after time.

Desire, dedication fell into fixation—enough that the Von Einzbern would relax their millenia-old creed of exclusivism to induct a professional mercenary into the clan, all for the sake of this Holy Grail.

That they would hire a man despised by other magus for his unorthodox methods and his oriental birth showed the purity Von Einzbern's obsession.

And the symbol of that very obsession now stood in front of Emiya Kiritsugu and Ilyasviel von Einzbern.

Jubstacheit von Einzbern, the eighth head of the Von Einzberns, had been alive since the second Heaven's Feel, and it seemed he had taken each defeat personally.

Appearancewise, his features resembled those of the homunculus he created—behind his pointed locks of white hair, white beard and sharpened features lay two eyes that almost glowed with a passion, a passion that burned stronger than anything that the old man's nearly two hundred year old body could possibly hold.

Kiritsugu had seen these eyes before. He had seen them in the eyes of suicide bombers, of mass murderers, of madmen. Of individuals who would go any distance, break any rules to reach their objectives.

Yet the voice with which he spoke showed none of that enthusiasm. If anyone's voice could freeze water, it was Jubstacheit von Einzbern's.

"The catalyst I have requested has arrived from Cornwall at last." The Von Einzbern never spared any expense or effort to ensure that their master was in a position to win the grail war, and this was no exception. Only the Einzbern would have the resources and political sway to facilitate an excavation of a national historical site for the sake of a catalyst that may or may not have existed.

The catalyst, in question, lay in a large wooden rosewood container laid on the altar.

"With this Catalyst, even you will be able to summon none other than the most powerful of the Saber-class, the strongest of the servants." The "even" almost sounded accidental, but Kiritsugu had never missed the slight hint of contempt and condemnation in Jubstacheit's voice. Jubstacheit may have allowed him into the Einzbern, but he had yet to accept him.

"I am honored, dear head of the family" Kiritsugu responded without expression. He remained acutely aware of the markings on his palm that confirmed his status as a master.

"Irisviel, is the grail vessel prepared?"

Irisviel responded instantly. "Yes. The grail should function without a hitch."

Since the first war, the Von Einzberns have always been tasked with providing the vessel into which the holy grail is materialized. As the guardian of the vessel, Irisviel would have to be present on the field of battle in Fuyuki.

"Kill all six servants, and all the masters as well if necessary. Obtain the Grail, and bring back the Third Magic, Heaven's Feel. "

The glow in Jubstacheit's eyes were like embers as he spoke, and even his icy expression began to crack.

"Emiya Kiritsugu, I have given you the strongest servant of the strongest class, and all the resources of the Von Einzbern House. You cannot fail. You may not fail!"

"Yes, sir!"

Confronted with this burning, near-religious fervor, Irisviel and Kiritsugu answered simultaneously, without a single note of hesitation.

In his heart, though, Kiritsugu felt a note of contempt. This man had long since lost his reason and his faculties—he was no different from a political or religious extremist whose whole life goal was one objective—the reanimation of the Third Magic via the completion of the grail. This man cared nothing about what followed or what happened to the grail. Kiritsugu didn't mind fulfilling this man's burning wish.

But he had his own wish.

And, when he fought, it would not be for the sake of this mad old man.

* * *

><p>"The Legendary King Arthur, huh…"<p>

In their own chamber, Irisviel and Kiritsugu looked at the sealed rosewood box with trepidation. Nervously, Irisviel pried open the cover.

Even Kiritsugu, who had seen many a strange thing in his life, gaped. "This is over a thousand years old?"

The catalyst that would summon King Arthur—the sheath of the sword Excalibur.

Bathed in the soft light of the chandeliers, the scabbard glowed with a golden aura. Primarily blue but decorated with gold enamel, the scabbard looked less like a thousand year artifact than something in a jewelry shop. The words of an unknown language inscribed on the sheath bore not a scratch, and the enamel looked as if it was still hot from the furnace.

"A sheath that is supposed to heal all wounds and prevent aging of the owner, according to the legend," Irisviel observed. "I suppose it'd be a little hypocritical if it suffered from age while conferring immortality."

The scabbard looked more beautiful than anything Kiritsugu had yet seen—and yet, something about its dazzling beauty repelled him.

His dissatisfaction must have showed on his face, for Irisviel's face clouded with concern.

"Are you not happy with the Old Man's gift?"

Kiritsugu shook his head. "No, not at all. I'm eternally grateful of all the effort he put into finding this artifact. And I have no doubt that the servant that this catalyst summons will be the mightiest of the Saber class."

Irisviel's smile conveyed all the pride she felt in her husband. "You will have the strongest of servants."

Kiritsugu, though, did not share the sentiment. "…But this servant is incompatible with me."

Normally, a servant that is summoned naturally will have a natural compatibility with his master in terms of personality and temperament. A catalyst, though, overrides this and summons the servant it is attached to, regardless of affinity.

For Kiritsugu, a professional assassin who operated in the shadows, the glorious king of knights could not possibly be willing to share his ideals of stealth and efficiency.

For Emiya Kiritsugu is not a splendid magus. His abilities are only mediocre, his magic circuits limited. In a fair fight, he would have been defeated by half of his targets. Emiya Kiritsugu cannot win in a direct confrontation.

Perhaps that was what repulsed him too in the catalyst—as beautiful as that gilt scabbard could be, he would much prefer the dull, smooth simplicity of a good sniper rifle.

"If I wanted a servant, I would have preferred assassin or caster, somebody who knows the art of subterfuge," Kiritsugu muttered. Now, he would need to formulate a strategy that would allow both he and his servant to use their abilities to the utmost.

His worries were interrupted by a sound that, in this medieval castle, seemed as outlandish as a white supremacist at a black panthers meeting.

The electronic beep of a laptop.

The older the magus lineage, the more they are resistant to modern innovations.

The Von Einzbern, who had stood tall for millennia, had thrown a fit when Emiya Kiritsugu had suggested the installation of an Electric generator.

But here it was, a symbol of the modern world that lived on outside the bounded field that hid the Von Einzbern castle from the casual mountaineer or Britannian Tourist.

"Ah, the report."

Kiritsugu walked over to the laptop and began typing as Irisviel looked on with interest. The encryption network, Kiritsugu noted, was fine. On the other hand, it usually was—few people knew that there was internet service in the middle of a German forest.

But Kiritsugu, who had long lived as an assassin, wasn't about to take any chances. Many of his former targets had given themselves away because they didn't bother defending their data.

Opening a browser, Kiritsugu scrolled through a series of webpages—photocopied documents, online articles, sometimes just raw HTML plundered from some server, each filed under a name.

Kiritsugu began cycling through picture files that ranged from blurry old pictures to detailed printouts.

"These are…?"

"Our opponents."

If you knew neither yourself nor your enemy, Sun Tzu once said, you cannot hope to win. Know yourself but know not your enemy, and your victories will be even. Know yourself and know your enemy, and you need not fear a thousand battles.

The first file was on Tohsaka Tokiomi.

Head of the Tohsaka house, one of the main founding families. A specialist in the use of flames and jewels, as per Tohsaka family tradition. A traditional magus.

A little thorny, but Kiritsugu had fought many magus before. It was the most orthodox of magi that were the easiest to kill.

The next picture and file was on a young Asian woman in her twenties. Irisviel scrutinized the picture. "She looks kind of young…"

Kiritsugu nodded. "Guan Tziling, a Chinese magus from the Imperial Guard."

"From the Chinese system[2]?" Chinese and Japanese magus did not often associate with the western Magus Association—the fact that this woman would involve herself in a battle that went by Western rules was unusual.

"Well, an unorthodox opponent…but I don't think she'll be too large of a problem. She's barely an adult, not really a powerful enemy."

Next up was Lord Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi. One of the greatest lecturers at clock tower, from the illustrious El-Melloi house. It seems as if he had some troubles obtaining a catalyst, but he was still a confirmed master. A worrisome opponent.

There was no data from the Matou family—not a big surprise. The Matou's bloodline had weakened since the first war, and at this time, it was likely that that vampire of an old man, Zouken, was the only one still capable of any magecraft. A wildcard would be present, then.

And there was a member of the holy church, a Kirei Kotomine. Son of the supervisor, he was once an Executor, a magus hunter of the Holy Church. He then transferred to the assembly of the 8th sacrament and then the magus association under the tutelage of Tohsaka Tokiomi, breaking all ties with his old master when the command seals materialized. An indecisive man?

But, as Kiritsugu read on, his eyes narrowed.

Irisviel, who had not been privy to Kiritsugu's thoughts, was suddenly aware that Kiritsugu's bored expression had tensed up.

"Is there something wrong?"

"This Kotomine…"

Irisview leaned over and did her best to read the LCD monitor. The screen felt way too bright and burned the eyes of a woman who was unused to seeing text not on paper, but she didn't complain.

"He graduated secondary school two years early and graduated from the Theological College of Manresa St. Ignacio with Top Honors…seems like a prodigy."

Kiritsugu nodded grimly.

"His professors said that he could well have ended up as an archbishop, maybe a cardinal, with the faith that he had. But instead, he abandoned that future and instead joined the Church's…other bodies."

"Well, he could be a devoted son. Isn't his father a member of the Assembly of the 8th Sacrament?"

Kiritsugu shook his head.

"Then he would have joined the assembly instantly. He did end up in his father's department eventually, but not before going tough three different departments and serving a stint as an Executor."

With 1 billion members, the Roman Catholic Church is probably the largest member of the many bodies that fall under the umbrella term of the Holy Church. It is not, by any means, the only body.

When you talk about the Holy Trinity of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, preachers prefer to emphasize the mercy of Jesus Christ, the son, and the grace of the Holy Spirit, the portion of god that lives inside every Christian. Those are the values espoused by the Roman Catholic Church.

But Christians are apt to forget the existence of the Father, the God of the Old Testament.

The god that struck down the firstborn of all of Egypt and ordered the Israelites to perform a genocidal extermination of all the original inhabitants of the promised land.

The Jealous god, the avenging god, the god whose wrath against evil is unquenchable.

For good to prosper, what is evil must be purged.

For the average Christian to enjoy the grace and mercy of god, those who threaten that grace and mercy must be exterminated.

That is the rationale behind the Executors.

Executors are not exorcists.

They do not protect what is good, separating the demon from the afflicted innocent.

Instead, their job is to exterminate what is "evil."

Being an Executor means going through years of brutal training, designed to sculpt an immovable faith and an immovable body.

Being an Executor means dirtying your hands so that the 2.2 billion Christians of the world can live with a clean conscience.

Being an Executor means that many of your targets are humans—humans who threaten the safety of the Lord's flock, but humans nonetheless.

Being an Executor means being a murderer.

For a young man who hasn't hit 20 to be an Executor, he has already passed the benchmark of serial killer.

"Maybe he's a religious extremist, like those men you were working with in the Middle East. At a certain level of faith, you'd be willing to blow yourself up in crowded streets for your god."

"I don't think that's it either. From the report given to the association, Kirei Kotomine has been learning Spiritual Healing, Alchemy, Evocation, summoning, divination—all branches of magecraft that are detestable in the eyes of the Christian god. And he's good at it too—he has a talent for healing magecraft that even exceed Tokiomi's level of skill. What's with this rapid level of development? What's motivating him to work this hard?"

Irisviel frowned. "Well, this Kotomine is a little weird…but he doesn't seem any more talented than anyone else, especially comparing your other enemies…"

"That's the problem," Kiritsugu remarked with a sigh. "He's no more talented than any other man—but he always grinds through with pure effort. In everything he does, he works as if it were his life goal—and when he's just about to reach the very top, he simply throws everything away and starts anew, never looking back."

Kiritsugu frowned.

"He has no close friends, no confidantes. This man is searching. He's searching with all his might. He'll believe anything as long as it helps him find it, and because of that he believes in nothing. He's searching for something, and he's never found it. This kind of man only knows failure, despair, anger. He's easily my most dangerous opponent."

"Dangerous?" Irisviel looked at the face on the LCD screen once more. When Emiya Kiritsugu says somebody is a thorny or troublesome opponent, he may find them dangerous, but he has already devised a plan and figured out the odds of success. When Emiya Kiritsugu calls somebody dangerous, he is a threat, somebody who needs to be fought at full power.

"This Executor is more dangerous than great and powerful magus like Tokiomi and Archibald?"

Kiritsugu nodded. "To defeat an enemy, you must know how they think. I know how magus think, especially noble ones such as Archibald. I know their fears, their perceived threats, what they rate above or below them. I know how religious extremists think—I know how to exploit their pieties, their faith, their superstitions. But this empty man—I do not understand him at all. Kotomine Kirei's way of life is empty, without direction—so why does a man this lost require a grail that grants wishes?"

"Perhaps it's the Church's decision. He is with the Assembly of the 8th sacrament, tasked with retrieving sacred artifacts…"

Kiritsugu shook his head grimly. "The Holy Grail doesn't just hand out wishes to anyone—it looks for people who truly desire it. He has a motivation, a motivation I cannot understand at all. If we let a man like this reach the grail…who knows what will come out of his rage and despair?"

"It won't happen." Leaning over Kiritsugu's chair, Irisviel wrapped her arms around his neck.

"This grail within me is only for you, Emiya Kiritsugu. I won't allow anyone except you to touch it."

As much as Irisviel's devotion touched him, though, it pained him. Because he knew the future that awaited both of them.

But he would not run away—he couldn't. Not when Iri was walking with him. Not when they shared that dream.

The elders of the Von Einzbern merely wanted the completion of the grail, the realization of the Third Magic. But the couple that would go to war on them had their own wishes, their own desires to pour into the Holy Grail.

Getting up out of his chair with a tired shrug, Kiritsugu wrapped his own arms around Irisviel silently as he tried to kill the pain in his chest.

A moment, a minute, an hour, an eternity later, they let go.

"C'mon, let's check on Ilya."

* * *

><p>The halls of the Einzbern castle were silent. Outside, snow cascaded across the ground and caked on the windows as Irisviel and Kiritsugu walked past.<p>

Surrounded by plush dolls, Ilya was, of course, asleep in her four-poster bed.

Having slipped out of her covers, she had curled herself into a ball. With each breath, her locks of white, nearly translucent hair rustled ever so slightly.

Kiritsugu sighed with a smile as he lifted his daughter up and spread her back over the bed. With a finger over her mouth, Irisviel gently laid the covers back over their daughter.

Kiritsugu smiled as he looked down at his daughter.

_She's so light—so fragile._

Irisviel smiled softly as they silently closed the door. "She really is your Edelweiss, isn't she?"

"Iri, I know we're not going to fail now."

"And why is that?"

Kiritsugu smiled. "Because Ilya is waiting for us."

* * *

><p><strong>Footnotes and References<strong>

* * *

><p>[1] Edelweiss, <em>Leontopodium alpinum<em>, is a hardy rocky flower that only grows in certain areas 2000–2900 m above sea level. It is a symbol used in many cases to represent the Alpine countries (Switzerland, Germany, Austria), though it doesn't only grow in the alps

[2] Chinese Magecraft – not technically magecraft, but in the Nasuverse, the Chinese system includes Taoism, Japanese Onmyōdō, Shintoism and eastern medicine.

* * *

><p><strong>-Afterword, Q&amp;A-<strong>

**Well, I was a little disappointed with the lack of reviews, even as the story traffic remained fairly robust. I'd first like to thank Angry Santo and Xoroth for taking time to write reviews. As people who are really "putting out" with my writing, I do feel encouraged when people review the story, even if the review is negative-it shows people care about it enough to write about it. So, if you have time, do take it to post your views and feelings!**

**AngrySanto - Thanks, once again, for covering my ass with these grammar errors. I'm not the most meticulous proofreader, and HeavyValor has also pointed out my tendency to overcapitalize things. I'm glad you enjoyed the Pearl Harbor crack, and I'm even happier you enjoyed the chapter :D. On the topic of Waver's catalyst, I will confirm that the King of Conquerors is no longer the servant. In fact, this was a really last-minute decision (the Caster intended for Nightmare Apatheia was transferred over). To be honest, I really, really like Rider, but with four of the servants from fate/zero already reappearing, it'd be very difficult to really reimagine the plot when five of the servants are exactly the same. However, I can guarantee you that in power, Waver's servant will not lose to Iskander. Moreover, Kiritsugu's analysis of the masters and their identities are not completely correct either. Do look forwards to it!**

**Xoroth - To you, too, I thank for the correction on the Barthomeloi. For some reason, my mind always went "Bartholomew" when I saw the Barthomeloi, so I interpreted it as the Bartolomei. As you can tell from these two chapters, Kariya will not be the master of the Matous-but Berserker will appear as planned, for the same reason as how you feel-because a servant making a knightmare into a noble phantasm, even at a D-rank, is goddamn badass. Waver's servant will not disappoint either-in terms of fame, he may actually exceed even Fate/Zero's Rider. I hope you continue looking forwards to it!  
><strong>


	9. 1 Week Ago: Towards the Breach

**Author's Preface:  
><strong>

**To begin with, I'm really sorry for taking this long. I realize that I am three days late...**

**but, in consolation, I did manage to finish all of the prologues.**

**I'm in finals season, so this next two weeks will be busy, but I'll do my best to contribute new updates.**

**Whatever the case, here are the final two Prologues, and look forwards to the start of the story in the coming chapters!**

**-Thanks and Sorry, CaptainSparkles**

* * *

><p><strong>P.S. I made some character sketches of the characters in this one that can be found here (remove spaces:)<strong>

**ht tp : / / thejimmierustler . deviantart . co m / art / F-ZE-Kotori-Talasi-Lloyd-Harkins-298024633 ? q = gallery % 3 Athejimmierustler & qo = 2**

**ht tp : / / thejimmierustler . deviantart . com / art / F-ZE-Kayeri-Brant-Monica-Kruszewski-298024295 ? q = gallery % 3 Athejimmierustler & qo = 3**

**Do forgive the disappointing Quality, I'm no great shakes at sketching!**

* * *

><p><strong>-Towards the Breach-<strong>

"_Fellow Britannians,_

_Yesterday I reported to the Britannian people that warships of the Japanese Navy have launched a deliberate and aggressive attack on a sovereign ship of the Holy Empire of Britannia, the H.M.S. Raleigh, while it was engaged in a legitimate patrol exercise. In self defense, the H.M.S. Raleigh returned fire. Fourteen Britannian Citizens were killed as a result._

_The Japanese Government has responded by denying all responsibility and insinuating that the Raleigh fired first._

_This action is a clear provocation on the part of the Japanese government, one of a series of provocations that have offended the Britannian people. _

_These include but are not limited to the imposition of an embargo against the Holy Empire of Britannia and the imposition of a military blockade on Britannian ports around the world, an action that has brought much economic hardship to our citizens overseas._

_This last injustice, wrought upon Britannian lives, is hardly the first, but it will be the last that Britannia will bear._

_In the past, the Japanese have tried to impose their tyrannical, archaic rule on its neighbors through force of arms. Japan's rampage in the Sino-Japanese war alone led to the deaths of 16 million Chinese, and it's designs extended to Britannia itself, with its attack on our forces at Pearl Harbor._

_Today, Japan has changed its name, but it has neither changed its goal nor learned its lesson._

_Today, the Nation of Japan hopes to bend the knee of our Great Britannia, not through the force of arms, but the weight of money. _

_But Britannia will not bend its knee._

_We will prove that we, Britannians are the ones destined to inherit the earth, the ones selected by Destiny to rule the world. _

_And, for that reason, I have asked the Imperial Senate and the House of Lords for a declaration of war against the Nation of Japan._

_Both Houses have granted my request._

_After Pearl Harbor, we rebuilt, we rearmed, we reconquered. We rolled back that empire of hate, to the very gates of their Emperor's palace._

_We will do so again, if we must. _

_If Europe or China will stand in our way, we will sweep them aside as well._

_We will make sure, for once and for all, that this nation can no longer launch its attacks on our great nation._

_We will make sure that none will debate our lineage._

_We will make sure that none will question our destiny._

_We will make sure that none will doubt our justice._

_All Hail Britannia!"_

-Emperor Charles Zi Britannia, Address to the Britannian People

-January 22nd, 2010 ATB

* * *

><p><strong>January 23rd, 2010 ATB<strong>

**Oahu, Hawaii, Area 7, Holy Empire of Britannia**

"Honolulu, huh?"

"Yep."

"80 degrees, clear skies, a nice breeze…the mood is perfect."

"mmmmhm…"

"Only one thing I feel is off, though."

"What about it?"

Kayeri Joseph Brant III sighed wistfully. "Where are all the women?"

The streets of Honolulu were filled with men in uniforms—military police uniforms, dress uniforms and even BDUs.

The boy next to Kayeri shrugged nonchalantly as he fanned himself with the cheap seashell plastic fan he had bought from a nearby vendor.

"It's not like they rented out the city for us," Lloyd Harkins noted gently as he stood aside for a group of Marines.

Blonde, soft-spoken and several years older than he looked, Lloyd looked far too gentle for the military uniform he wore. Then again, Kayeri conceded, the contemplative Virginian didn't look like the southern baptist, fervently anti-big government supporter of gun rights that he was either.

"I don't see hula girls anywhere, though."

"Maybe they have other things to worry about, like maybe the war that just got declared yesterday."

There was, inevitably, a sense of excitement in the air. Apprehensive salarymen, excited children, angry activists, enthusiastic soldiers and grizzled old veterans who told everyone who passed them about exactly where they had been when "those squinty-eyed rats hit us in '41" intermingled on the streets.

The warships docked nearby in Pearl Harbor, Kayeri surmised, only added to the excitement.

Troopships, Destroyers, Cruisers, submarines, a few battlecruisers and even Aircraft Carriers filled Pearl Harbor as they resupplied and prepared for the journey across the Pacific.

The war had been on days before it had been declared.

Now, the air of wariness had been replaced with an air of hurry. Trucks filled with soldiers drove through the main road and aides ran to and fro, carrying electronic notepads, laptops, and sheaves of documents.

Kayeri felt hurried too. Hurried to enjoy as much of Honolulu as he could.

Catching sight of an Irish pub ("The Leitrim Pub – Beer at half price after 2 AM"), Kayeri made a beeline-only to stop short at the sight of two unhappy-looking Military Policemen.

Lloyd gave a bemused smile. "Did you really think that you were the first of ten thousand soldiers to try it?"

"Maybe I was the first one to come to this one."

"On main street?"

"Well, maybe I can get around them if you distract the—"

"Don't consider it."

Kayeri and Lloyd grinned at each other. The military chaplain's son didn't seem particularly disappointed by Kayeri's failure—in fact, he seemed a little happy.

"Come on, Lloyd, be a little supportive here…

"Are you saying that I should support a destructive habit because I'm your friend?" Somehow, Lloyd's near-angelic smile seemed a little dangerous.

"No, no, but you know, drinking age is kind of an arbitrary number, you know, in biblical times even children drank—"

"My family used to own slaves, do you think that it excuses slavery?"

"No but—"

Kayeri could almost hear the stirring of the lovecraftian creature that hid behind Lloyd's smile and decided to change the subject.

* * *

><p>"By the way, any idea where Captain King is?"<p>

Lloyd shrugged as they walked down the thoroughfare. "Either at the officer's club or at the Leitrim pub?"

Organized in an uncomfortable mix of Cavalry and Air Force hierarchies, the Knightmare Corps was organized into 40-knightmare Squadrons, further divided into five-man Troops led by an officer, accompanied by maintenance and ground crews. Lloyd and Kayeri, both members of D troop of the 3rd Squadron, were commanded by Captain Owen King, a man who seemed to be perpetually in a state of DUI.

"Not like he would want to see me anyway," Kayeri muttered with a wry grin. The old man was a member of the Purists. Remnants of the old nobility that had fled the British Isles following its fall to French and Irish forces, the Purists considered anyone who was not one of the original colonists or British Expatriates as second-class citizens. Somehow, the bill included America's first inhabitants. Though the captain was generally too drunk to voice his distaste, it was common knowledge that the Canadian didn't think much of anyone in D troop save for Lloyd, whose plantation-owner pedigree exceeded Captain King's in length.

A burst of shouting caught their attention, and the two pilots waded through a crowd of servicemen as they hurried towards the scene.

Kayeri smiled resignedly and Lloyd shook his head as they came upon a scene they had seen many times before.

A tall black woman and a large, white man both in uniform were circling each other, faking jabs as they shouted at each other.

Behind the black woman, a shy-looking woman with nearly eye-length blonde bangs did her best to hold her back.

"Say that again, Cracker? Why don't you to say that again, in my face?"

"I say what I want, when I want, Ni—"

The black woman sprung forwards with a shout that drowned out the rest of the man's sentence, held back only through the strenuous efforts of the girl behind her.

Kayeri grinned. This was clearly going to come to blows. The worried expression of Lloyd next to him suggested that he had reached the same conclusion.

"Let's go break it up," sighed Lloyd as he stepped forwards.

"Hang on, Lloyd, let's wait a bit. I haven't seen Dorothea this mad for a while."

"Someone's going to get hurt, Kayeri."

"Dorothea can hold her own, you know that," Kayeri laughed dismissively.

"As if you were ever concerned for anyone's personal safety."

"Well, that and it's fun—"

"It'll be when the Military Police show up," Lloyd replied dryly.

"Lloyd, you have no sense of humor," Kayeri groaned with exasperation as they shoved their way through the crowd, most of which were putting out bets for their perceived victor. Each holding one of the black woman's arms, Kayeri and Lloyd hauled her away, ignoring her protests and those of the disappointed crowd.

* * *

><p>"Alright, white knights, you can let go now," Captain Dorothea Ernst grumbled..<p>

"You can't keep on getting into fights like that," Lloyd explained as he handed her a bottle of water.

"I can kick his ass. I didn't need you guys to help me there," Dorothea muttered.

Kayeri blinked in mock surprise. "Help you? Heavens, no, Dorothea, we were trying to save the other guy. You can't just bully people just because you're taller than them." Even Lloyd chuckled—there weren't many men who happened to be taller than Captain Dorothea Ernst, leader of 2nd Squadron's B troop, and even fewer that could take the Detroit native in a fight.

"They were making a pass on Monica," Dorothea explained.

The blonde girl finally spoke up. "I would have been fine," 2nd Lieutenant Monica Kruszewski, Lloyd and Kayeri's troopmate, said in her usual quiet voice.

"I don't think he would have heard you standing up for yourself," Dorothea remarked with a grin as she put an arm around Monica's shoulder. Unlike Kayeri, who had been drafted into the Knightmare Corps from naval aviation, and Lloyd, who had been recruited from the Army's armored corps, Monica and Dorothea had been friends before they were recruited, having attended the same Air Force Academy. In a way, Dorothea looked more at home with D troop (who had long since stopped referring to her as "ma'am", as was expected for a superior ranking officer) than with the B troop she led.

"Well, congratulations on taking out the only fun I would have had on this trip," Dorothea griped as she chugged out of Lloyd's water bottle, water dribbling out the side of her mouth onto her uniform as she talked.

Lloyd blinked. "You know that's really disgusting, right?"

"Dorothea's right, though," Kayeri cut in. "This has got to be the most boring trip to Hawaii ever. No beaches, no alcohol, no women…"

Dorothea pointed at herself and then Monica. "What are we, backpacks?"

"Let me clarify," Kayeri sighed, "No women that aren't capable of snapping my neck—"

"Careful," Lloyd said warningly, "you're a married man."

Kayeri grimaced. "I prefer the term civil union—"

"Semantics don't forgive adultery—"

"—Domestic partnership—"

"—there you are, Kayeri."

Instinctively, Kayeri froze as he heard the voice behind him. He ignored Dorothea's smirk as he slowly turned around.

Kotori Claveria Talasi's beauty was slightly marred by the expression of annoyance on her bespectacled face. Darker than Kayeri but lighter than Dorothea, the Arizona native wore a wampum like Kayeri's, though the azure and white of the Iroquois was replaced by the blue, white and yellow of the Hopi tribe.

In their childhood, the two had always been raised together.

As the daughter of the chief of the Hopi tribe, she had already distinguished herself in receiving admissions to the Colchester Institute.

Since then, she had been drafted by the knightmare corps as a pilot and technician, the last member of D troop.

She was also Kayeri's fiancé.

"Queen Ka'iulani II was holding a luncheon with the viceroy today. I went as your representative, but it's your job as the representative of the five nations to go."

"Yes, yes," Kayeri responded with what he hoped sounded like nonchalance. "Well, you see, I had other engagements—"

"Like?"

"Erm…"

Lloyd and Monica winced as Kayeri's inability to come up with an excuse was rewarded with what would probably be a very long lecture.

Dorothea leaned over with a smirk. "Kotori's really good at keeping her wife on a leash, isn't she?"

Monica smiled awkwardly. "That's a little harsh, you know…"

While the marriage between Kayeri and Kotori is largely political, it doesn't follow the idea of a woman being married off for influence and power.

The Iroquois and Hopi tribes are matrilinear—children and ancestry are tracked by their mothers, and there is an element of matriarchy—even male tribal chiefs must answer to the clan mothers.

In marrying Kayeri, Kotori wasn't marrying into the Mohawk tribe of the Iroquois Confederacy—rather, it was Kayeri who was marrying into the Hopi tribe, Kayeri who would be leaving his family and his family name.

In that respect, Kayeri was closer to the wife than the husband.

And as Monica watched Kayeri desperately try to allay his fiance's anger, she was pretty sure that, in this respect, Kayeri Brant was the wife as well.

* * *

><p>Night had fallen by the time D-troop had (with the help of several Military Police officers) found Captain King and half-carried him back to Hickam-Pearl Harbor Joint Headquarters.<p>

A few military police officers stopped them and then waved them through into one of the bases' many buildings as they showed their identifications—the officer's rank and slightly higher security clearance was a small perk that came with being in the Knightmare Corps.

Predictably, they were the last to arrive, as Monica and Lloyd dumped their captain onto a chair (who seemed to have come to the conclusion that he was a carrot) and found their seats in the classroom.

Finally, a man with only one open eye and the immaculate white uniform of a knight walked to the front. The rest of the corps immediately stood up and saluted.

Bismark Waldstein, Knight of One, personal commander of the 1st Squadron and head of the knightmare corps returned the salute, motioning for them to sit down.

As one, a hundred and twenty officers and pilots sat down. From an initial pool of three hundred drawn from every branch of the military, these were the ones that had been selected to pilot Britannia's newest weapon, the Knightmare Frame.

"As you probably already know, gentlemen, the Imperial Senate and the House of Lords voted yesterday to declare war against the Nation of Japan."

There was an audible intake of breath—of course, everybody in the military knew that war had been declared—but that didn't make it any less nerve wracking.

The lights darkened as a projector on the ceiling activated, beaming a map of Japan onto the screen at the front of the room.

"We fought Japan in 1941—and we well nearly lost. The Japanese got almost as far as occupying Hawaii. They crushed the Chinese, they crushed us in the Philippines and they crushed the EU in Indochina. If they had fought in Japan as they had in the Pacific instead of surrounding, we would have lost millions of men."

The slides transitioned with a loud, artificial ring, now showing a graph of numbers.

"Thanks to the Sakuradite boom, the Japanese are flush with cash. They've been purchasing German Armor, aircraft carriers from Russia, and French planes. Their air force, army and navy is thoroughly modernized and organized on modern guidelines. According to studies taken by the ministry of war last year, the invasion of Japan would cost the lives of 15,000 men in the naval war and on the beaches alone. The subjugation of the rest of japan could cost anywhere up to half a million men, if not more."

Bismark turned to the assembled pilots.

"And this is where we come in."

There was a noticeable chill in the room that had nothing to do with the air conditioning as Bismark continued.

"We are Britannia's ace in the hole. The Japanese—or, for that matter, any army—has never seen the likes of the knightmare frame. We tower over tanks, and we outmaneuver and outpace them. When we hit the battlefield, we will have a psychological advantage.

But the Japanese do not lack intelligence, nor do they lack bravery. If we fail to exploit our strength, the Japanese will, regroup, and reorganize.

And that's why we have to make the most of our advantage.

We have to forge our psychological edge into a blade of fear. We have to make all the enemy's fears into a reality. We need to strike with swift and deadly force, to separate and isolate the enemy so our infantry and armor can mop things up.

We don't have the armor of our friends in the armored divisions, nor do we have the firepower of the artillery. All we have going is speed.

We need to go fast (Author's Note: the Green Hills Zone in 8bit is not playing manually in your head) and strike faster.

Our targets will be supply dumps, communications, command centers. When the nerves are cut, the limbs will fail. If their nervous system is down, all we have left is their corpse."

Pausing, Bismark looked around the room.

"By the way, is anyone camera-shy?"

_Huh?_ The thought that simultaneously went through everybody's minds was almost audible.

"Don't be," Bismark said deadpan. "Don't hide from the Japanese or foreign news cameras. Make sure they see you, and make sure to blow up as much as possible when the camera's on you. We want the Japanese to know us, to recognize us, to fear us."

One of the Captains from the 2nd Squadron stood up. "Sir, wouldn't we be revealing details of our knightmares to the enemy?"

Bismark nodded. "Yes, Major Guilford, probably. They'll probably get some good footage too—but in the globalized world, we won't be able to hold the element of surprise again—and the psychological damage we can deal far outweighs giving a few details to the Japanese.

Remember, Gentlemen, we're here to fight a quick war. If the Japanese are still around to analyze and develop countermeasures for our Glasgows, then the war has already gone on for too long. There is no situation where a country has benefited from protracted warfare.

Are there any questions?"

There were none.

"Good. At 0700, we will be departing for the Japan. The 1st Squadron will be with me will join the Pacific Fleet's 3rd Battle Group, headed for Tokyo. 2nd Squadron under Major Guilford will be going with the 2nd Battlegroup to Hokkaido. 3rd Squadron under Major Winters will move with the Pacific Fleet's Oriental Fleet for Kyushu and Southern Honshu.

The politicians have done their job; let's do ours.

All Hail Britannia!"

As one, one hundred twenty knightmare pilots responded.

"All Hail Britannia!"

* * *

><p><strong>January 23rd, 2010 ATB<strong>

**Itsukushima Imperial Japanese Army Academy**

**Itsukushima, Nation of Japan**

The sound of bamboo cracking against itself resounded in the Itsukushima Imperial Army Academy's dojo.

Shogo Asahina mopped his sweating brow as he sat down. His shoulder still ached from the blow that he had taken in his own match.

In the center, two men struggled back and forth, alternating strikes with all the fervor of a real battle.

The art of Kendo, of course, is not an actual simulation of Japanese warfare. The Japanese Katana did not gain any prominence as a weapon until well into the Edo period where real combat was rare, and Kendo itself is a facsimile of the use of a katana[1].

But for the old guard, Kendo is a symbol of pride.

For them, it is one of the many traditions that were abandoned with the betrayal of the civilian government.

In the officer's academy, it was expected that every cadet had at least basic training, a decision that ironically had only been instated after the end of the first pacific war.

For Shogo Asahina, one of the "seven samurai," the expectations were even higher.

_"Men_!" With a grunt, the blue-haired man dropped his shinai with a clatter. Like the others in the class, he was dressed only in a hakama—instructor Tohdoh was not a great fan of protective equipment. With an expressionless face, he bowed to his opponent before turning around and walking to where Asahina knelt. The moment his face turned away, he winced painfully.

"Shit, man, you can't beat Tohdoh."

Asahina grinned wryly as he rubbed his sore shoulder.

"Urabe, I can't tell if he's teaching us what to do in kendo or how to feel when we're shot."

Gripping his shoulder, Urabe leaned against the dojo wall. Even after years in military school, Kosetsu Urabe's delinquent background was all too obvious in his spiked hair and rough accent.

"No offense to the Instructor, but you know, I'd like to win sometimes too..."

"Being able to be personally instructed by the Instructor himself is a privilege, Urabe. You're free to leave. And stop leaning against the wall, it's disrespectful (Author's note: It is in a Kendo dojo)"

Urabe's eyes narrowed as he grinned wryly at the short-haired woman who sat cross-legged on the wooden floor.

"Don't get your jimmies all rustled, Nagisa, I wasn't trying to insult your crush."

Nagisa Chiba, a young woman with shoulder-length grey hair, gave no obvious signs of provocation. Asahina, though, noted that her ears seemed slightly redder.

"It has nothing to do with that. We simply have to live up to the expectations put up to us by the rest of the student body."

It was the collective student body of the Imperial Officer's Academy that bequeathed the moniker of the "Seven Samurai[2]" to the seven most outstanding cadets in the academy. Handpicked by Headmaster Senba, these seven stood head over heels over the already-stringent officer selection process of the Old Guard.

"You have to admit, though, Tohdoh is consistent," a tall but chubby boy groaned as he gripped his shoulder as Asahina and Urabe had done. The fact that 115-kilo (about 240 pounds?) Honda Nagayoshi managed to outrun Asahina (along with most of the other seven swords) was a secret shame, but "Gian[3]", as his friends preferred to call him, was by no means out of shape.

At the center of the ring, Kyoshiro Tohdoh calmly sidestepped a bespectacled girl's sweaty strike and dealt her a blow to the stomach.

Asahina grinned as the bespectacled girl doubled over, clutching her stomach.

"Combo breaker," Urabe grinned.

Asahina winced in sympathy for the bespectacled girl's plight.. "Only because he didn't want to break Hikida's glasses."

"I'm no good at this, am I?" Kiri Hikida gasped as she limped over.

"No, not at all," Urabe replied.

"Very inspiring, Urabe," Kiri muttered as she sat down next to a quiet-looking young woman with midlength hair and a somewhat unnoticeable presence next to her. Since day one, Kiri Hikida and Sayaka Shinozaki had been best of friends, and they remained so, sighing in unison as the last member of the Seven Samurai was knocked to the ground.

The female population of the traditionally patriarchal officer's academy wasn't large, but it was established opinion among them that Azai Sorin was the most attractive cadet in the academy. From the way he carried himself, it seemed as if he had no idea.

"As unforgiving as usual, Lieutenant," an old voice said from the Dojo.

Immediately, Asahina and the others instantly snapped to a salute.

"At ease," Headmaster Ryoga Senba said briskly as he bowed on entering—within a dojo, rules were rules. "Tohdoh, how are they doing?"

"They're coming along well. They're improving steadily—at this rate, I can see them overtaking me by the end of the year."

Perhaps Tohdoh saw it, but Asahina knew he didn't see it. The Headmaster, though, laughed.

"Tohdoh, I don't think we have until the end of the year."

Tohdoh's expression didn't change. "So it's here, then?"

Senba nodded slowly. "My old contacts in the army said that they're entering a state of military readiness already. The Chinese Beiyang fleet just set sail from Korea to join up with our Navy."

There was a stir among the students that not even the vigorous discipline of the academy could quell. War had been on the horizon for months, but its declaration still held some significance.

It meant that the richest nation in the world and the most powerful would be going to war.

Tohdoh looked up at the evening light that shone through the windows. "What about Landside?"

"Oguchi's ordered mobilization. The Air Force is flying regular sorties now—if anything, the JSDF isn't slow."

"Hm."

"Sir, permission to speak?"

Senba and Tohdoh nodded to Sorin.

"Will we need to be deployed?"

Senba paused for a moment before responding. "To be honest, no, I don't think so. I once served in the JSDF too—and I believe General Nagano gives them less credit than they deserve. My guess is that most of this war, like the Pacific War, will be on the oceans, between carrier-based aircraft."

With a shrug that cracked several bones, Senba swung his arms aggressively—the muscles underneath his uniform were still obvious.

"In the meantime, instructor Tohdoh…how about a match?"

As the other six cadets moved to surround their headmaster and instructor, Asahina couldn't help but feel that he wasn't particularly reassured.

_After all, that's how we felt when we attacked Hawaii during the last war, right?_

* * *

><p><strong>0645 Hours<strong>

**Hickam Air Field**

**Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, Area 7**

"Ah, you're the guys from the engineering corps, right?"

The Navy Aviation pilots and navy men who waited at D troop's helicopter waved.

"Yep, that's us," Captain Owen King replied listlessly—he still seemed slightly tipsy, and the grin he gave the navy men seemed to suggest that the alcohol had left him in a good mood.

"Lots of boxes you've made us move today," the navy officer said wryly. "Any chance you could tell us what's in it?"

"Classified information. If I told you I'd have to kill you," Captain King replied with a grin, to which the other navy officer laughed mirthfully to what he assumed was a joke.

But, Monica Krusewski conceded, Captain King was more serious than he currently thought he was.

After all, High Command had taken the effort to have all of the knightmare corps wear the uniform and ranks of the Army Engineering Corps under the guise of transporting base material.

_Putting them onto an Aircraft carrier is a pretty big giveaway, though…_

Kayeri smirked as he climbed aboard the UH-80 Athena, the mainstay helicopter of most of the Britannian armed forces. "Getting the VIP treatment, huh?" At Pearl Harbor, the Army and Marines were currently embarking onto transports that would take them to the beaches. Transported by helicopter, the knightmare corps essentially had an Aircraft carrier to themselves.

Unlike the Britannian Marines and Army, the Knightmare Corps would be air-dropped on board their Glasgows en masse—the H.M.S. _Polaris_, an aging aircraft carrier, had been recommisioned and upgraded for this purpose.

"Somebody hold onto Captain King so he doesn't fall out of the helicopter," Kotori said with a meaningful glance to Lloyd.

With a whirr, the helicopter lifted off the ground, rising past the surrounding buildings of the air field. From her seat, Monica could see other helicopters loaded with other Knightmare Corps officers, their lights blinking in predawn gloom.

She looked back at her fellow troop memebers.

Lloyd was dutifully holding onto Captain King, who seemed to have fallen asleep, while Kotori adjusted Kayeri's clothing with the irritation of an older sister.

Monica smiled. If anything, at least her teammates were the same as ever.

* * *

><p>The helicopter touched down on the H.M.S. <em>Polaris<em> as the last tendrils of sunlight creeped across the deck of the flattop (or, as the navy men called it, the bird farm).

"That wasn't so bad," Kayeri said cheerfully as he leapt onto the deck with a muted clang.

"Easy for you to say," Lloyd responded. Halfway in-flight, Lloyd had shoved Captain King's head over the side so that he wouldn't vomit on Lloyd's shoulder.

On the deck, navy men were still transporting the large metal boxes that held the Glasgow knightmare frames. On the deck, helicopters and one or two jets intermingled as technicians, naval aviation pilots and knightmare pilots intermingled.

From their position of the deck, Monica could see the battlecruiser (And flagship) _Francis Drake_ in front of them and the Pacific Fleet's Aircraft Carrier, the _Victoria_, welcoming its own knightmare corps pilots. All in all, over 70 ships west sail participate, essentially the vast majority of Britannia's Pacific Fleet.

A navy seaman laughed softly. "Kinda ironic that we're the ones that are making the first strike, innit?"

After all, it was the Japanese attack on the Pacific Fleet in Pearl Harbor that had started the Pacific War.

Now it would be the Pacific Fleet sailing from Pearl Harbor that would start this war.

_I guess it's really happening. We're going to war._

Monica felt a shiver go through her spine. For all the practices that she and the rest of the corps had gone through, she felt ominously unprepared for a combat situation.

_When it comes down to it—am I ready to pilot the Glasgow?_

As the sunlight crept across the flattop's deck, Monica turned back towards Pearl Harbor. The sun crept over Oahu's mountains, lighting the harbor up. For a moment, illuminated in the light, the Britannian flag flying from the memorial of the sunken _Maryland_[4], a relic from that day that lived in infamy.

It was a Kodak moment, one of those things you put on badly made Youtube music videos that scream Lee Greenwood's "And I'm proud to be a Britannian; where at least I know I'm free" or something like that.

But, at that moment, on board the convoy headed to the land of the rising sun, Monica Kruszewski didn't feel much patriotism—only fear.

* * *

><p><strong>Saharan Desert<strong>

**Mali**

With a whistle and then an explosion of dust, an artillery shell burst inside the mountain fortress, sending a few unfortunates plummeting down the sandstone sides.

"Well, this isn't too great…" Mai Mai muttered to himself with a strained grin.

It seemed V.V. hadn't quite given up on finding them.

It probably wasn't just raw luck that Queen's Rangers were helping the Mali and Niger Armies attack this Tuareg insurgency base.

The Tuareg, a nomadic people, had never quite fit into European equations on the division of Africa, and in the days of postcolonialsm, they had struggled against the governments Europe had left behind.

Lacking both the heavy artillery and armor of their enemies and the air support, the Tuaregs had always fought a guerilla campaign.

Once their fortress in the Malian mountains had been found, they wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight.

With a grunt, Mai Mai forced his rifle to his shoulder. An obsolete AR-18 was still better than the Soviet AKs that the other Tuaregs were forced to use. Carefully lining up his sights, he gunned down a Mailan soldier crossing the corner.

_I need to get out of here._

His heart went out for the tuaregs who had found and cared for him in the desert—but if V.V. found him, there would be far more lives at stake than just these tuaregs.

He ran around the next corner—and then snapped back. A group of Queen's Rangers were there, advancing in fire groups.

Like their Malian and Nigeri (Author's note: is it really Nigerian, since there's a country of Nigeria too?) army counterparts, the Tuaregs were poorly trained, worse than the directorate guards that had been easily trashed by one of the most elite special forces in Britannia. And though Mai Mai wasn't bad with firearms, his senile body was hardly one to match up with youngsters.

Mai Mai ran down the mountain's tunnels hurriedly. Each blast of artillery shook the walls, sending pebbles and sand down on his turbaned head.

There were a few old Jeeps and ATVs at the bottom of the mountain—if he got there, he could make a run for it.

Around him, the sounds of combat echoed—the rangers had entered through multiple points, and the Malian army continued to pound the mountain with cannonfire.

"I'm…too…old…for this," Mai Mai gasped. He wished his code operated fast enough to remove all the lactic acid from his body. Now that would be great.

Still, for an old man, Mai Mai would have beat a few records with the rate at which he reached the garage.

With a wheeze, he ran around the corner towards a jeep—just as a man wearing combat goggles and a dark helmet stood up on the other side.

"Shit."

From behind other vehicles, other Queen's rangers raised their weapons in warning.

_Well, this is bad…_

Mai Mai gritted his teeth. _Not like I can die anyway._ Flipping his AR-18's mode from Burst to full Auto, he raised his rifle—just as something red and blue landed in front of one of the rangers. Before the man could react, the woman had moved on, and the man fell soundlessly. The way in which his torso contorted suggested that it had been completely dissected.

"Weapons free—" a ranger managed before he fell to the ground. On closer inspection, Mai Mai saw a woman wearing a mix of what seemed like a Red jacket and some kind of long, full-length blue dress.

The last queen's ranger fell, clutching his arm in shock—and no wonder. The speed with which the woman had went through them did not seem human, even to someone who had seen masters of martial arts such as Yunyun or seasoned knife-fighters such as Siri.

The woman stopped and turned towards him. Mai Mai could see nothing in her eyes—no hostility, but no friendliness. Just a pure, empty blue.

It seemed like the girl was wearing a rather unfashionable red jacket with a white frill and some kind of traditional Asian dress underneath it. All very weird things to wear on a battlefield.

"Who—"

And then he was looking down at the knife that was embedded in his chest.

"—What—"

Mai Mai could only manage a gasp as he collapsed.

But he was not panicked—a mere knife wound—

—and then Mai Mai realized he was feeling something new.

It was a feel he did not know (Author's note: Sorry, I couldn't resist), but that most people recognized instantly.

He was dying.

_But how?_

His code was supposed to grant him immortality.

And yet, he knew this feeling fading from his limbs—the feeling of a person dying.

The last thing he felt was confusion.

The girl looked down at the body. Upstairs, the sound of battle continued, but she had no interest in what would result. Turning around, she walked away, away from the trail of bodies she had left behind on entry. Her duty here was done.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes and References<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>[1] <strong>LOL KATANA IS MADE OF FOLDED METAL BEST WEAPON HUR**R** – The techniques in question of hammering folded sheets of metal that people claim give Katana their mythical power were developed by the Scandinavians early in the first millennia, and they went on from it long ago. The Japanese were still using it well into the 1600's, though they did manage to refine the techniques (though they were also limited by their limited resources). It's not like the Samurai didn't know it—in Sengoku era Japan, the main weapon used by Samurai were war spears and Naginata. The Katana, while holding strong significance culturally, is not a battlefield weapon, or not one that was really practical to use unless you lost the rest of your weapons—just like western Swords. When Knights fight, they don't use their sword blades. They grapple (ht tp : / / www . youtube . c om / watch ? v = G4k-vjdeZO4). Swords (and even most polearms) can't cut fully-evolved plate armor, and Japan's development of Plate Armor led the rest of the world (or at least the post-roman world) until the development of coats of plates in the mid middle ages. I'm not saying the Katana is a shit weapon, but its quality is no better or worse than their European equivalents. There are really damn well made katana, but there are really damn well made western weapons too. You won't ever see one sword cutting through another, even if it's a katana or an exceedingly shitty-quality western sword (If you've watched The Sacred Blacksmith you will know what I mean)

[2] Seven Samurai – an action movie from 1954, considered a movie classic inside and outside Japan. I haven't watched it myself.

[3] Gian – A reference to Doraemon. Man, that show was my childhood. Anyway, there is a very large character known for his poor singing nicknamed Gian, actually after the English word for Giant.

[4] Maryland as opposed to Arizona – I do have a reason or two for replacing the USS (or in this case HMS) _Arizona_ with the _Maryland_. The first is that, given that Mexico was annexed as area 3, probably in the Code Geass equivalent Mexican-American war, it's doubtful that historically that area would have been split into separate states in the fashion that Alta California (As the region is known) was following the Mexican-American War (Where General Winfield Scott, while reaching Mexico City, never annexed Mexico, given it's not one of our states). As such, I would imagine the Ariona – Colorado – New Mexico – California region would all be part of Alta (upper) California, as it was referred to by the Mexicans. Moreover, _Maryland_ was a battleship docked at pearl harbor during the historical attack, and while it was only lightly damaged in that version, the term Maryland would be far more likely to exist as opposed to Arizona.


	10. 1 Day Ago: I know that Heaven's Feel Bro

**-I know that Heaven's Feel Bro-**

_"An invincible determination can accomplish almost anything;_

_and in this lies the great distinction between great men and little men."_

-Thomas Fuller

* * *

><p><strong>January 30th, 2010 ATB<strong>

**Newport, Rhode Island, Area 1 (Britannia Proper), Holy Empire of Britannia**

They say that the men and women who live on the south coast of Rhode Island were too rich and powerful for mere gossip.

After all, the row of mansions that stretched across the coast belonged to some of the most wealthy men in Britannia: nobles, old war heroes, plutocrats and businessmen of every sort.

Surely they would be above the petty gossip of the common people.

Of course, that was not the case.

Wealth does nothing to satiate curiosity, and rich or not, the men and women who lived along the misty New England coast talked and gossiped with each other as much as anyone else.

One of their favorite topics was the occupant of the Mansion on the Cove.

It wasn't the walls that intrigued them—many of the more paranoid or the slightly poorer lived in walled complexes.

It wasn't the style—not everybody preferred the amenities of a modern mansion.

It was the fact that none of them had ever seen the occupants. In all their walks, jogs and travels, they had never seen anything save for the servants. The lights were on at night, but nobody ever answered the gates, and the distance was too far to see any human shapes. When they approached the servants, they gave no response.

Some of them theorized it was some kind of Gatsby-esque romantic who was looking for his love. Others just assumed the owner was elsewhere, and the house was simply being maintained by a housekeeper.

Others thought it was some Foreign aristocrat living in exile.

_Let them wonder,_ Lord Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi thought to himself.

A magus of a noble house such as himself had no obligation to answer to those who lived outside the world of Magecraft.

It would be silly to allow them to presume that their money and peerage could make them his equal.

Just like that stupid student of his.

To run off with his Catalyst.

Possibly holding a grudge from Kayneth's rejection of his thesis, the boy had stolen the shipment destined for Kayneth's hands and run off.

Most of the association had mocked the boy—surely such a weak magus could not know about that rock's significance. Surely he was simply venting his anger by stealing an item that he himself did not know how to use.

But Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi knew better.

He knew of Waver Velvet's tenacity, his stubbornness, and the inordinate pride that he held.

Let's be clear, Kayneth does not think any less of pride.

But pride requires the peerage to back it up—and for a third-generation magus like Waver, that much pride was dangerous. The pride of this peasant was that of one of the lords.

It was the kind of pride that would, when bruised, compel a boy with little to no practical experience as a magus to take part in a battle reserved for bigger men.

Kayneth almost felt bad for the boy.

It was like a rabbit that had willingly leapt into a battle between wolves.

Though it was still rather obscure, the Fuyuki Holy Grail War was still going to be a battle between powerful magus—the thousand-year Einzbern, the Tohsaka—and now Archibald.

Given, Waver Velvet now had the catalyst that Archibald had so painstakingly excavated under the eyes of the Church.

But a familiar can only be so powerful as his master—and any servant who had a low-class magus such as Waver for a master would be an apartment building expecting to be powered by a AA battery.

Both servant and master were doomed to fail.

But Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi was merciful.

He would allow Waver Velvet to participate with the servant that he stole.

He would let the little boy play in the game for adults.

After all, Kayneth had already obtained a replacement catalyst from the shores of the Aegean.

Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi would fight this boy who presumed to be a man as an equal.

He would be the one who would teach his former student his last lesson.

He would kill him personally.

After all, in the adult world of magecraft, there are no failing scores, only corpses.

* * *

><p>Kayneth smiled in the dining room. It was early morning, and the joggers were outside.<p>

He examined the object in his hands in the sunlight.

The old spearhead gleamed in the light, its rough bronze surface catching the glow. The shaft had long since rotted away, and the spearhead itself, while thin, no longer looked quite as sharp as it once had

Yet, Kayneth knew, it would be sufficient to summon one of Greece's greatest heroes.

One of the greatest heroes of the greek world, combined with one of the greatest magus of this age—Kayneth knew he was a match, even for the servant that his disciple would now be summoning.

On the intercom, a voice spoke. "Master El-Melloi, you have several visitors outside fo the gate."

"Magus?"

"No, sir, I detect no circuits." The servants of the El-Melloi household were not, of course, human—or at least weren't quite so any more. Humans are easy to bribe, to leak information, to perform erratically on minor whims. As a master of Spiritual Evocation and Summoning, Kayneth preferred familiars and spirits whom he could control at will. The "servants" he had were simply corpses which bound familiars—at his signal, these bodies could burst apart, allowing his familiars to assert their full deadly abilities.

Of course, Kayneth wanted to keep up appearances—he chose only the most beautiful of corpses and ensured with copious amounts of formaldehyde that they seemed to look and function the same as a regular human. There were a few actors and dissolute singers whose bodies were now working as his "servants".

"Don't let them in, they'll get bored eventually," Kayneth replied with a wave of his hand. He was not interested in talking with nonmagus, and this mansion was procured especially so that he could get away from having to meet so many of them.

"Master, they claim to be from the OSI, with information about heaven's feel."

"OSI?" The Office of Secret Intelligence was a nonmagus organ of the Britannian government, but it often worked to coordinate action between the Britannian government and the association. It was the OSI, after all, that had given Kayneth information about the other masters.

"Very well, let them in."

If their information wasn't to his liking, he would give them a good scare.

Within half a minute, a knock was at his office door. Kayneth was surprised—normally, the servants would take their time in bringing their guest upstairs.

"Come in," Kayneth said as he sat himself behind his desk. On top of the desk, a little dango-sized blob of mercury wiggled around on a stand, a miniature of the Volumen Hydragyrium he kept activated around him. Powered by his prana, 10L of modified mercury stood ready to scalp his targets or protect him at a moment's notice.

As they entered, Kayneth worried even less. Though he sensed some limited circuits among htem, none of them were remotely active.

These men and women weren't even a threat.

An uninterested-looking dark-skinned woman, a happy-looking Asiatic man, and at their head a tiny blonde boy flanked by other children. This looked like an orphanage's trip to the zoo, except that all of them were wearing suits.

Kayneth looked up at the smiling Asiatic man. Something about that cheerful smile seemed to suggest something predatory, but Kayneth wasn't cowed. "I wasn't aware today was bring your kids to work day."

It was not the man who responded, but the blonde boy at the front. "Pardon their intrusion. They're my…bodyguards."

"Bodyguards?"

"They can be surprisingly vicious in a fight," the blonde boy said with a smile that seemed older than his years. Kayneth suppressed a frown. The boy annoyed him for some reason. Nevertheless, it seemed like he was in charge.

"Well, Mr…"

"V.V. will do."

"Oh, I thought aliases were only in spy movies, Vivi."

V.V.'s smile didn't waver. "I do get confused for a girl sometimes."

"Well, no matter. What is your information?"

"Waver Velvet has arrived in Fuyuki City, and a servant has been summoned in the Tohsaka household. The war has already begun."

Kayneth shrugged. It wasn't news to him—though it was surprising that a servant had been summoned this early for the Tohsaka, it meant nothing to him. He would have to fight htem eventually anyway.

V.V. looked at Kayneth. "I assume your preparations are ready?"

Kayneth sighed. That these nonmagus would assume he potentially wasn't…"Of course, V.V.. My catalyst is prepared, and all that there is to do is to finalize my provisionary contract with my wife."

"Provisionary Contract?"

"A modification of the master-servant system," Kayneth explained proudly. "An innovation that I made to the Einburn's obsolete system. This way, I as a master will be able to perform to the best of my ability without sacrificing prana or compromising the abilities of the servant. My wife will provide the prana, and I will hold the command seals—this way, the prana drain doesn't affect me, while the servant will reflect my abilities."

V.V. nodded. "Ahh. Interesting."

His lack of impressment was irritating to Kayneth, but not unexpected. Nonmagus sometimes didn't understand the magnitude of this kind of thin.

"Well, I suppose our business is done," Kayneth said, "My servants will show you to the door." He clapped his hands for one of the servants.

"I don't think they're coming, Lord Archibald," V.V. said with a smile.

Kayneth blinked, nonplussed. "What are you sayi—"

"No matter how many times this happens, it's really weird," Ryuunosuke Uryu noted lightly as he looked around at the frozen humans around him.

Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi and the children V.V. had brought were all frozen in poses, Kayneth's mouth left slightly open in midsentence.

Next to Uryu, the dark-skinned girl, Nalika Sarasvati, walked outside the room. Outside, human bodies were strewn across the floor in various states of decapitation.

"This whole immortal thing takes the excitement out of killing," Uryu muttered.

Uryu Ryuunosuke is an Artist.

He doesn't kill because of some old grudge, or because he hates his targets, or even because he's greedy.

It's because death is beautiful.

When you're born, you're in your most basic state, the most undiluted form of humanity.

Yet when people grow up, they start hiding themselves. Society and law compels people to put on masks, build up walls around themselves, to hide their true selves so that they're molded into a form palatable for society.

Death changes that.

When you're faced with death, sometimes cowards become brave men, and great men become blubbering messes.

When the only thing you can see is your extinction, all those walls and masks you've built are stripped away.

The only thing left behind is raw humanity.

And, no matter how it looks like, for Uryu, it's beautiful.

If he's anything, Uryu Ryuunosuke is not biased.

Regardless of race, gender, or upbringing, being put in the face of death reveals the most beautiful in you. You are a piece of art.

And Uryu consideres himself an artist on the level of Da Vinci.

Using Geass to hide that takes the beauty out of death.

"We're no different from petty killers when we do this, V.V," Uryu called as he stepped towards Kayneth.

V.V. smiled. "You'll have more than enough time later. Rollo can't hold the geass forever. For now…"

He turned back to the boy with the blank eyes whose face looked increasingly drawn.

"Fine, fine." Uryu reached into his jacket and pulled out a handgun. He didn't like these weapons either—making art with a firearm? Something that explodes doesn't go well with a work of art.

Almost idly, he pointed it at Kayneth and pulled the trigger—and instantly flinched as, with a loud richochet, the bullet shot past him, nearly grazing his head before embedding itself into a bookshelf.

Where Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi once stood was now a large sphere of reflective metal.

It was a perfect sphere, made of some kind of solid metal. On closer inspection, though, one could see the swirls of liquid that crisscrossed the sphere. This was not solid, but a liquid.

Unsteadily, Uryu reached out with his hand—and then suddenly snapped it back.

But not fast enough, not nearly. With the sound of rushing water, a tendril of the sphere shot out, stabbing right through Uryu's hand before withdrawing.

"Cooooolllllll," Uryu said with a painful but enthusiastic gasp as he stared at his bleeding hand. Almost instantly, though, the bleeding stopped. Uryu knew it would heal in a few seconds, but he stared in wonder at the hole in his arm during the time.

Volumen Hydragyrium – Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi's mystic code. Composed of 10 L of mercury and infused with Archibald's own prana, it formed an absolute defense for its master, a 1 mm thick layer of hardened mercury that could block an artillery shell without even bending.

V.V. smiled. The assassins he had sent to kill this man had failed, but they had left behind useful information despite their deaths.

V.V. took a quick look at Rollo. Pumped with drugs, the boy's body would run for some time more—but a body can only operate so long without pulmonary innervation.

"Nalika, is it ready?"

"Yes, sir," the girl responded blankly. Unlike Uryu, this girl showed no enthusiasm for her job, something that V.V. didn't mind. Her lack of personal initiative did make her somewhat more reliable then her (quite literally) trigger-happy fellow immortal.

Nalika was currently holding a common blowtorch, a propane-based tool found in many a workshop.

With a hiss, the blowtorch activated.

Mercury, in its elemental form, has a melting point below zero (~-39 Celcius, to be exact), the reason for its common occurrence as a liquid in room temperature. Its Boiling point is similarly low, at a mere 356 celcius (In comparison, high-quality paper ignities at as high as 450 Celcius, while Iron doesn't even melt until 1500 Celcius).

When fighting a pyromancer, a master of fluid manipulation such as Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi can easily adjust Volumen Hydragyrium to form compounds with higher boiling points or pressurize the mercury to increase its boiling point and defensibility.

Of course, with its master completely frozen in his moment of time, Volumen Hydragyrium could only try to pressurize itself in an attempt to loyally defend its master.

As the mercury was evaporated with a slight sizzle, Volumen Hydragyrium attempted to cover the sphere by rerouting more mercury in the direction of the breach.

Even with his immortality, V.V. couldn't help coughing as he felt the faint metallic taste on his mouth.

Mercury poisoning in the long term in small amounts can lead to mental problems, fatigue and memory loss, hypertension and damage to the kidneys. When 10 Liters are being rendered into a vaporous form, effects will immediately manifest themselves.

V.V. took a glance at Rollo—and his face whitened.

Mercury poisoning is the most obvious in children, and immediate effects include pulmonary problems, tightness of the chest and accumulation of mercury in the lungs, leading to chemical pneumonia.

Rollo was clearly starting to suffer from these.

If Rollo Halliburton died before V.V. and the immortals could finish, Kayneth would be able to respond—and nonmagus V.V. knows full well he stands no chance against one of the greatest magus in the world in an open confrontation.

With a new sense of urgency, V.V. turned to Uryu.

"Is the barrier down?"

Nalika deactivated the blowtorch—on the ground, bits of bubbling mercury spattered the ground, hissing as it dissolved into vapor. But the barrier was down. Inside, seemingly unaffected, stood Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi.

"Uryu!"

"Alright, alright," Uryu said resignedly as he walked over. "Just disable his limbs, right?"

V.V. nodded.

"Hurry!"

* * *

><p>The boy who had received the name Rollo Halliburton felt his sight darken and brighten.<p>

Somehow, he suspected, knew, that he was near death.

But he knew he had a job, and he would do it, even if it cost him his life.

That was the cost of a name.

He had been expecting this for years—his years working for V.V. before he took control of the geass directorate;

The time since, when he had assassinated countless men.

Every time, he had been prepared for death.

That was the only thing expected of the geassholders of the geassorder.

Only the most powerful were even considered for eligibility for immortal. Those that were unfit were either left in a state of neglect or used by the order to pursue their own policies.

With a physical frailty borne of long periods of asphyxiation from a young age, Rollo could not have hoped to replace anyone.

This had always been his fate, no matter how long he lived.

And, somehow, he didn't feel unhappy.

He just felt a little tired[1].

In fact, he felt kind of happy.

Even as his vision faded, he felt excited.

As if there was somebody waiting for him on the other side.

As if he had accomplished what he had come for.

And, as the blackness finally swept over Rollo Halliburton, he felt as if, somehow, inexplicably, he had won.

* * *

><p>"-ing—eurgh—"<p>

Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi finished his sentence—and almost fell unconscious from the shock. His body, normal just a minute ago, felt as it had been soaked in ice.

Everything felt cold, deathly numb.

He blinked. He could feel himself gasping. He was looking up at the ceiling of his office.

"w-what…"

And then a blonde boy walked over him and looked down with a prod of his foot, a prod that made Kayneth's limbs feel as if they were exploding.

"Well, Kayneth, I am aware that you were looking forwards to your Holy Grail War."

From the background, he could hear other voices, echoing.

_Why can't I hear them clearly?_

Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi could not yet realize what had hapepend to him.

Seemingly unperturbed, V.V. smiled, surrounded by the children that had accompanied him.

The grin was that of pure pleasantry—not hate, not triumph, not even pity. Just a normal smile.

And yet, Kayneth, for the first time, felt fear.

"Don't worry. We'll fight it well for you."

And then, for the first time, Kayneth noticed that the children's eyes glowed with a bright purple.

On closer inspection, there appeared to be some kind of bird in their eyes—

* * *

><p><strong>February 1st, 2010 ATB<strong>

**Fuyuki City, Japan**

"God—damn—it—come—back—you…"

Waver Velvet tried to hide his embarrassment as he lay sprawled across the ground in a noticeably undignified heap.

_The Valedictorian of Clock Tower, struggling to kill Chickens._

It was quite embarrassing.

Somehow, Waver imagined the process required to summon a servant to be a little more dignified than this. But liquid silver was hard to find, and apparently blood wasn't just on sale on the streets.

A more skilled magus like Kayneth would have simply killed the chickens…

_Christ, what am I doing?_

Here he was, all suited up for the Holy Grail War, and he was having trouble with the part that didn't even require magecraft.

Pathetic.

"Is everything alright, Waver?"

Waver turned around. "Yes, grandma, just fine!"

Waver shook his head. He couldn't lose heart now.

After all, it wasn't like he had managed a constant string of failures.

Finding an old couple like Glen and Martha Mackenzie and modifying their memory was one success.

Glen Mackenzie, a Britannian soldier who had been station in Japan following the war, had moved over with his wife Martha and son from Area 2 several decades ago. Their son, though, had never quite gotten use to Japan, and had moved back. It seemed as if they had fallen out of touch, and their son had never returned.

Even for a magus of limited talent such as Waver, it wasn't difficult to modify their memory so he was now Waver Mackenie, their long-lost grandson.

Now he had a home, a base of operations and a few chickens he had stolen off a nearby market.

He would hold the ceremony tonight.

He knew he would have the strongest servant.

The rock at the center, that worn piece of rubble, had been taken from Jersualem. Made of Lebanese marble and sculpted by the artisans of Byblos, the rock had once stood as the cornerstone of a temple, one of the greatest in its day.

A temple still held with respect by 2.8 Billion human beings across the world.

And its cornerstone would summon the wisest and the greatest of the Kings of Israel—the man whose wisdom and power awed the Jewish, Christian and Muslim world.

Tonight, the King of Kings would blaze open a path to the grail and victory.

He needed blood or some other spiritual medium for the summoning—the chickens would have to suffice.

_Now if only I could catch them…_

* * *

><p>In the underground workshop of the Tohsaka mansion, a more elegant ritual was being prepared. After all, it was Tohsaka Tohkiomi who was in charge. Immaculately and elegantly, Tohsaka Tokiomi inscribed a circle with the molten essence of a liftetime's worth of gems, all liquidated for this one ritual, the one ritual that the Tohsaka had fought in for over 200 years. With a voice that could have melted the heart of any women, he chanted.<p>

_"Shut. Shut. Shut. Shut. Shut. Five perfections for each repetition. And now, let the filled sigils be annihilated in my stead."_

Kirei Kotomine watched from the sidelines. The magic circle was shockingly elementary, of a lower level than some of the conjuration circles Tokiomi had taught him.

"_It is a simple ceremony because we are simply the initiations,_" Tokiomi had said.

The Holy Grail System is not the same as magecraft, which draws its power completely from the user's prana reserve. The Holy Grail system is closer to eastern magecraft, in which the user draws from the natural energy and flow of mana of the earth. (Author's quick note: Remember, Od is the energy of the body, Mana is the energy of nature, and Prana is the unit used in magecraft, synthesized in both). In that respect, it is the Holy Grail that is performing the ceremony.

Like someone who turns the ignition key in a car as opposed to a man who pushes a wheelbarrow, a master is only activating a system that has been prepped into readiness from 60 years of peace.

In that respect, the activation ceremony is stunningly simple.

From the sidelines, behind Risei and Kirei Kotomine, a figure shrouded in darkness shivered.

Even now, the first servant summoned in the war knew that this servant would be his greatest enemy.

An old rotten snakeskin, preserved with the quality of faded parchment.

Who would think that it would be the catalyst to such a monster?

* * *

><p>In her room in the Ryuudouji temple, Guan Tziling inscribed a circled with blood—her own, carefully collected through several months. In the center lay the heirloom that her family had treasured for centuries—the Green Dragon Crescent Blade.<p>

Surely, this would summon her ancestor.

_"Ye first, O silver, O iron. O stone of the foundation, O Archduke of the Contract. Hear me in the name of our great teacher, the Archmagus Schweinorg._"

Guan Ling was acutely aware she had no idea who Archmagus Schweinorg was.

* * *

><p>In the Office of the Archibald mansion, surrounded by blood, V.V. smiled as he chanted, surrounded by the bodies of the little Geassholders, looked on by his two companions and the half-corpse that was the man who was once Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi.<p>

_"Let the descending winds be as a wall. Let the gates in all directions be shut, rising above the crown, and let the three-forked roads to the Kingdom revolve."_

* * *

><p>In the backyard of the Mackenzies, exhausted from his battle with the chickens he had stolen, Waver Velvet closed his eyes as he stood over the circle of blood he had created.<p>

This battle would put his limited skills to their very limit. If he lost, he would lose his life, a nameless character in history.

But Waver Velvet would not turn back.

This was his battle.

This was his destiny.

And he would win it.

What Waver Velvet lacked in magic circuits, he made up in determination.

Pain began to seep into him through his arm, more pain than he had ever experienced, the feeling of the raw mana of the holy grail connecting with the circuitry of the body.

_" – Set_

_Let thy body rest under my dominion, let my fate rest in thy blade._

_If thou submitteth to the call of the Holy Grail, and if thou wilt obey this mind, this reason, then thou shalt respond."_

* * *

><p>In the mountains of Germany, surrounded by raging snow, Emiya Kiritsugu clenched his teeth. As the circle in front of him began to glow, he took a glance at Irisviel, watching from the side.<p>

Her smile reminded Kiritsugu of what they were fighting for, and he closed his eyes.

Gritting his teeth, he ignored the pain that lanced through his family crest and the circuits of his body, that overflowed into his nervous system and excited each nerve ending.

_" – I make my oath here. I am that person who is to become the virtue of all Heaven. I am that person who is covered with the evil of all Hades."_

* * *

><p>In the dark corners of the Matou worm chambers, a voice spoke with a quavering but strong voice, a voice strengthened only by the madness that it now conferred onto its servant.<p>

"_ – Yet, thou serves with thine eyes clouded in chaos. Thou, bound in the cage of madness. I am he who commands those chains –_ "

* * *

><p>Six masters each closed their eyes simultaneously.<p>

"Thou seven heavens, clad in a trinity of words, come past they restraining rings, and be thou the hands that protect the balance – !"

A blast of divine wind, like the gales that brought down the mongols

The glow of lightning, with all the anger of the gods.

A great beacon, like a lighthouse piercing through the crowds.

A whisper, the whisper of a thousand men's passage into the afterlife.

And then the ceremony was over.

—The white face of a skull that watched the proceedings dispassionately—

—Golden Armor that shone like the sun—

—Green Tunic and flowing beard—

—Multicolored robes, lined with Gold and jewels—

—Black Armor, concealed by an ominous fog—

—the scarred bronze breastplate that gleamed in the lamplight—

—The the Silver breastplate and blue tunic that shone like moonlight—

Seven Servants stood before Seven Masters.

"I ask of you—are you my master?"

* * *

><p><strong>1 day ago<strong>

**Tajikistan**

C.C. walked through the empty temple with trepidation.

On the floor lay a mix of bodies—Mercenaries in flak jackets, but also V.V.'s Geass order troopers, in their heavy armor.

Many of them lay in states of decapitation.

_Who did this?_

This Buddhist temple had been built centuries ago, under the auspices of the local rulers.

C.C. was quite sure they hadn't intended this temple to be a battlefield.

She had went in expecting a fight from the Directorate Traitors—but it didn't seem as if there was anyone left to put any of that up.

Dashing against a wall, C.C. took a peek around the corner. Seeing nothing, she charged out—and then paused. Illuminated on the lamplight, a woman wearing a red jacket and a blue (Kimono?) stood over Sen.

_Sen lost?_

Sen, Immortal of the Khagan Thought Elevator, spotted C.C.. "You idiot—"

The woman instantly turned around—and instantly, the green-haired immortal and the blue-eyed woman locked eyes.

C.C. blinked, slowly. "Who…are you?"

It seemed an Eighth servant had been summoned into the war.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes and References<strong>

* * *

><p>[1] <span>Symptoms of Shallow-water Blackout<span> – Rollo doesn't know this, of course, but this in fact can happen to you. The body doesn't allow you to kill yourself by holding your breath—at a certain point, it will force you to breathe. But the factor that affects this isn't the level of oxygen in the blood (well it partly is, but at very, very, very low levels of oxygen in the body, and it isn't nearly as strong). The factor that determines your breathing impulse is Carbon Dioxide (to be exact, the hydrogen dissociated from bicarbonate formed from CO2 in the fluid your brain floats in. You'll learn about this if you continue learning biology). Because certain actions (like physical activity or drugs) can lower the amount of CO2 in your body, people who hold their breaths after strenuous activity have lower amounts of CO2 than their should be. And since O2 and CO2 are consumed and produced at approximately the same rate, you may run out of O2 before your CO2 level rises high enough to trigger the breathing impulse. This, and pressure factors on the body, affect divers who don't use scuba gear, and leads to a phenomena called "Shallow-water blackout." People who suffer from it (and survive) report that they didn't feel like anything was wrong, they just black out and lose their memory. If they don't have somebody watching them, it's very easy to die. In Rolo's case, it's less hyperventilation than drugs that artificially force down CO2 levels by binding them into other compounds that aren't bicarbonate, lowering his breathing reflex. I'm not sure exactly what mental trigger Rolo uses to activate his geass, but I suspect that the strength of the breathing reflex is ususally what forces him to deactivate the geass after a certain time. I may not be right, but…well, I'm not sunrise. His feeling of light-headedness and giddiness comes from asphyxiation, by the way. What this means for readers is, if you're doing a holding-your-breath contest or diving, make sure you're not hyperventilating, and make sure, if you insist on doing it, make sure somebody is there with you to make sure you're alright. People HAVE died.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Postface<strong>:

**Once again, I do apologize for this week's delay, but I can almost promise you I will not have a chapter next week. It's Finals week in college, so Water Uganda Do? On the other hand, I do appreciate the reviews left behind this week, and I do hope more of them can be left behind. With the prologues done, I can finally get to the actual war, with all the knightmares and things blowing up and stuff, which was probably what you guys signed up for anyway, so I do hope this does whet your appetite, even if the next meal might take a while! Thanks, CaptainSparkles**

**D-Trav**** - Firstly, thanks for the review and the compliment-there was a dry spell recently where I got quite a few readers but no subscriptions or reviews, so I was worried that people didn't find the fic to their liking, and your review did come at the perfect time to compel me to finish these chapters (I could have spent another week trying to work out something I'd spent a month trying to work out anyway). The Prologues in general were meant to be a postface to the circumstances behind Code Geass Canon (i.e. Monica's backstory, the Glasgow project), especially since it's exploring territory that hasn't really been explained (as opposed to fate/zero, which is already written out-I'm going to do my best to make this a completely different piece, though). Honestly, China has a pretty bad experience with Eunuchs. Most of what happened in the THree Kingdoms period kind of started with Eunuchs - The Qin Dynasty ended with Eunuchs screwing things up too. But, as I said, there have been loyal and good Eunuchs too, so don't hate all the people without balls!**

**Phalanxx - While I wish you had said a little more, every review does help motivate me, so thanks for it! Even if you dislike it or don't have much to say, do tell me. I'm always willing to alter things i screw up on (especially grammar, as other reviewers have often pointed out). At any rate, I hope you keep reading!  
><strong>

**AngrySanto - Thanks once again for the grammar mistakes, and yeah, I apologize about the Emiya chapter. My hands were kind of tied, and there were points where I was just rephrasing Canon, but I felt the chapter was important and couldn't really come up with something radically different. This chapter with the summoning was a little limited too, so do forgive me for that. I've told you this in PMs, of course, but don't lose sight of Kariya-he's going to be a major character, even if he's not a master! Taiga and Raiga's piece isn't done here either-in fact, you'll be hearing from both of them within I'd say 4 chapters. In the meantime, thanks for encouraging me via Private Messages as well! I'll do my best not to fail your expectations (It might take a while, but expect Saber and Bahsahakar to run into knightmare-related issues!)  
><strong>


	11. Chapter 1: A Flat Minor

**Forwards: Greetings from Hong Kong! I wrote most of this chapter on the plane from New York to Hong Kong while fighting sleep and the two old grumbly ladies who stood between me and urination. Don't get me wrong, though, I absolutely love going on planes—the little compartmentalized meals that I used to be unable to eat as a kid; the lifting off and landing; that and opening the windows when the lights are dim and everyone's trying to sleep. It is, as anyone who has been to Hong Kong knows, hot and humid, weather that makes summers in New York feel like fall. Still, I do get to buy souvenirs, eat really cheap food, meet the relatives and catch the Hepatitis A that I have not been completely immunized for, in that order of preference. At any rate, this and Chapter 3 are going to be relatively Actionless chapters—but that's only because Chapters 4 and 5 are going to be both long action chapters. In the meantime, enjoy Chapter 1 of Fate/Zero Eos, and please do leave a review!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1 – A Flat Minor<strong>

"_Bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks_"

-Mahatma Gandhi

**Fuyuki, Republic of Japan**

In the modern world, one of the first signs of globalization is the 24-hour 7-11.

The largest operator of convenience stores in the world, 7-11's name stems from its (then-unprecedented) 7-11, 7 days a week service. Since then, the chain had expanded to 24/7 constant service.

In Asia, 7-11s are known for both their ubiquity in terms of the products offered and its omnipresence—there are more 7-11s in Japan then there are in its birthplace of Britannia[1].

Hardly the place for a triumphant feast.

But here was Waver velvet, picking out some food he had never seen before in the middle of the night.

Apparently the Japanese did not subsist on a diet of Sushi, pocky and Korean children every night, contrary to the stereotypes some of his colleagues in Boston suggested[2].

It took a bark of "Segawa!" from another employee to wake up the blue-haired cashier, who seemed to be fighting a losing battle with sleep. It took a fair bit of gesturing and poor English for Waver to figure out how much of his "grandparents'" money he had to pay.

The automatic door slid open with an electronic jingle as Waver stepped outside. Behind him, the cashier was now being berated by his supervisor.

"Segawa, you can't fall asleep on the job. I understand you have three daughters—"

Waver shivered as the automatic doors closed, sealing the 7-11 and leaving Waver in the February cold

_Three children?_ The cashier seemed around Waver's age.

_Maybe he started young._ Waver couldn't imagine having three children at that age.

It seemed, though, that he would have to deal with one.

Having steered far out of the line of sight of the 7-11 or any late-night pedestrians, Waver sighed.

"You can come out now."

For an irritating moment, he simply stood there. Waver tapped his foot with irritation. He looked like a madman, talking to thin air. A second later, though, with the sound of a footstep, a solid shape faded in.

Caster—the servant that Waver Velvet was already regretting summoning.

To the Magus Association, he was the father of Modern Magecraft, the visionary who began the standardization and establishment of the many tenets of magecraft that are followed even today.

To the Muslims, he was Suleiman the Great, the ever-faithful prophet, blessed with control over all the beasts and beings of the world, from the lowly ant to the greatest Djinn.

To the Christians, he was Solomon, the writer of at least three books of the bible and ancestor of Jesus Christ.

To the Jews, he was King Solomon, Israel's greatest monarch and the last king to preside over all of the Kingdom of the Chosen People in all its glory.

He didn't look like any of them.

Reading up, Waver had known that King Solomon had ascended to the kingship at twelve.

Even so, he didn't expect the greatest of the boy-king to look so young.

Caster looked and sounded annoyingly prepubescent. With his long hair and extravagant robes, he looked like the snobby, rebellious son of an investment banker.

"Thanks, Waver."

Waver Velvet was distinctly aware that something was wrong with this master-servant relationship.

When Waver had been reading about the Holy Grail War, he had imagined that a servant would be a glorified Familiar—a sentient but obedient tool that relied on its master for survival.

Having managed to procure the chickens required for the sacrifice, Waver had made several practice runs with the extra blood and rehearsed every line in the summoning by heart.

And the summoning was a success.

Waver had almost pissed himself in anticipation when the silhouette began rising through the smoke and crackles of electricity [2].

But what came out…

At first Waver had been a little underwhelmed—this little kid looked younger than he was, and his accent…

Waver knew that the Holy Grail system gave each servant a limited grasp of the modern world and modern language in order to prevent them from attacking airplanes.

He didn't know that the Grail could give them individual accents.

And Caster, in his kiddie voice, definitely spoke in the posh Harvard accent that had irritated Waver for all of his stay at Clock Tower in Boston.

Seemingly related to his accent was the snobby attitude of superiority.

Within moments of being summoned, Caster had quickly learned Waver's name before he could recover on his shock, and had referred to him by his first name since.

"This…erm, takoyaki has an…interesting taste. A bit bland, but interesting."

"That's great," Waver replied without much interest.

"Do you want one?" Caster, with a toothpick, stabbed one of the pieces of Takoyaki and offered it to Waver.

"No." While Waver appreciated the offer, the fact that the Takoyaki had been bought with Waver's money soured whatever gratitude he could have felt.

"Well, suit yourself." With that, Caster bit down on the round ball of whatever the Japanese made Takoyaki out of (Author's note: it's Octopus, dough batter, onions and other vegetables).

The moment the formalities were down, Caster had asked Waver if he had anything good to eat. Though it had been a question, Waver at the time had immediately complied, taking the servant to the convenience store a few blocks away.

When the disembodied voice had expressed interest in the box of what it said was Takoyaki (Waver, having no knowledge of Japanese, didn't know), among other foods, Waver had obediently bought them from the tired-looking cashier.

Waver, holding a bag of pleasantly-warm convenience foods, felt that somewhere along the way Caster had become the master (author's note: This sounded silly in my head too) and Waver had become the servant.

He needed to reset this relationship.

From what he had read about dogs, he remembered that yielding to a dog meant that you were acknowledging to your inferiority. A dog that considers itself above you will never yield to a single command.

As a master, Waver needed to reset that relationship with his servant. If he failed to assert his superiority now, then he would be stuck with a servant unwilling to listen to him.

Caster, meanwhile, held out a hand. "Can you pass me the Yakisoba Bread[4]?"

Waver didn't move. "Shouldn't we be doing more important things? Such as looking for other servants?" Waver realized it wasn't the most commanding of statements, but it would do.

"Nah," Caster replied, a reply that Waver honestly had not been expecting. "Most of the servants have just been summoned, and need time to plan with their masters. Moreover, a servant's summoning process is, for all its innovations, incredibly taxing to each master. It's unlikely the other masters will attempt to sortie tonight with a diminished amount of prana. I am unwilling to risk your safety unless you and I are both at full strength."

"I know that," Waver snapped in response to the unspoken implication. The truth of Heaven's Feel was that, no matter what, it was not the fair field of battle that Waver expected. A servant's power is limited by its master. No matter how effective a computer, its effectiveness is limited by its power source. Servants with inadequate or unskilled masters suffer from skill and ability reductions and must contend with less available prana.

Caster, selected by a top-class magus such as Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, was now stuck with a mediocre magus such as Waver. It was as if an apartment block was being powered by an AA battery.

The only way Caster would reach full strength would be if he stopped being Waver's servant.

Caster hadn't said it, but Waver knew the implication.

Basically, it was Waver's weakness that prevented Caster from going out.

Waver wouldn't have been so angry if it weren't true.

"And so, instead of wasting time, why not enjoy it a little? You have never been to this country, right?"

For Waver, who had always put his utmost into everything he did, enjoyment WAS a waste of time. "No, I've never been to this country, and I don't think I ever will be after this war."

"All the more reason to try out the _Yakisoba pan_ now, right?" Caster replied as held out his hand in his childishly high voice.

It was all Waver could do to stop himself from trying to hit his servant.

"Are you taking this war seriously at all? This has both your and my lives on the line."

"I've died once, and the only thing I regretted was not eating everything," Caster replied with another annoying smile—he had a way of finding new ways to reiterate the same one.

"The grail can give you anything you could want!"

"Meaningless, meaningless, everything is meaningless under the sun, as I would say," Caster laughed without a trace of irony. "I had everything and anything I wanted, a long time ago. I don't need or want anything that the grail really could get me!"

Waver groaned, the only response he could muster for his insufferable servant "Surely you have some kind of wish!"

"I do, and it's that you pass me the _Yakisoba pan._ What I want to know, Waver, is your wish."

Caster's tone was still lighthearted, but something about the question caught Waver off-guard.

"What?"

"I just wanted to know—what does the Master who summoned me desire of the grail? What noble goal would lead a Britannian with no grasp of the local language to go overseas and risk everything in a battle of life and death?"

"I—" Waver caught himself. _What was I going to say? _How would the wisest man on earth react if he found out he was fighting for a petty quarrel?

"What do you want the Lord God to give you? What is the answer to the dream? Is it gold and riches? Eternal Life? Are you here to save a relative or a friend? Are you here for revenge? Or is it something more noble?" Caster's indulgent smile and conversational tone did not suffice to hide the mocking tone that lay only slightly underneath the service. "Do you want justice for a past wrong? Do you want to protect the weak?"

"I…" Waver started, but Caster was not done, his friendly smile now a sarcastic smirk.

"Or do you seek even loftier and nobler things? Do you want to eradicate disease? Or are you going to ask god for wisdom, like I did? To reach…what do you call it now, the root, Akasha? Is that what Magus aim for these days? Wisdom? To understand everythin—"

"I don't want any of those things," Waver blurted out.

Caster blinked, surprised.

"I…I'm not aiming for anything like that. I just…I just want fairness."

Caster said nothing, his expression blank.

"I just want to be treated fairly by my peers at the Magus Association. I wish to be acknowledged for my talents, not for my bloodline. That's it."

Waver closed his eyes. Inside, he wanted to punch himself. His dream was neither noble nor deep—it was the complaint of an unhappy child. _What will Caster think of me now?_ Would this servant be willing to join a battle to the death for such a silly cause?

"And, to do that, you stole my catalyst from your former teacher." Caster said, slowly.

"Yes."

For a moment, Caster's face remained indecipherable. And then, he chuckled. And then the chuckle turned into a giggle, and then a full-scale laugh. In two seconds, Caster was laughing uproariously, as if Waver had said something stunningly funny.

Waver was starting to feel annoyed. "What is it?"

"What a stupid wish," Caster managed between chortles. "What a stupid, selfish wish!"

Waver had been a little embarrassed before, but as Caster's laughter continued, what embarrassment he felt changed to anger.

"What's so funny about that?"

"Just meaningless! Just so meaningless!"

Caster looked at Waver's face for a moment, and then resumed laughing. Waver clenched his fists—and then saw the red marks on his hands—his command seals. The ultimate authority a master had over a servant. If he wanted to, he could immediately force Caster to stop. All he had to do was to invoke it. Closing his eyes, he began murmuring. "By the power of this Command Seal, I order my servant to…"

His voice trailed off. _To what, exactly?_ As a master, these command seals were all he had over his servant. To use it on something as trivial as this…

Biting his lip, Waver cancelled his command and simply stared emotionlessly at Caster as the boy's high-pitched laugh finally began to subside.

"Are you done laughing at me yet?"

"I'm not laughing at you, Waver. Rather, I was laughing at the irony—that the King of Kings was summoned for such a selfish, childish quarrel."

"So what, ashamed of your master now? To be summoned for the sake of a a child's quarrel?"

"No, no, not at all," Caster finally managed with a smile. "In fact, I think I like you more because of it."

Waver blinked. Not the response he had expected

With a swirl of his robe, Caster swept his arm back into a bow.

"I, Solomon, son of David, willingly pledge myself to the cause of this stupid, childish quarrel!" And with that, Caster flashed a smile at Waver that took him by surprise.

In retrospect, Waver realized that it was the first smile Caster had shown that truly looked like that of a 12-year old's.

"Do what you want," Waver muttered as he looked away, slightly flustered.

"I hope you don't change your mind after we win this grail war," Caster said as he happily opened his now slightly-cold Yakisoba sandwich.

"…Can we win?" Waver asked slowly.

Caster grinned at Waver. "Are you doubting me, my master?"

Waver closed his eyes. TIn the back of his head, the mental image of a graph flashed in front of him—the status and abilities of his servant, as transmitted to him by the Holy Grail.

Caster was definitely a top-class servant, as expected of one chosen by someone as talented and wealthy as Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi. With the Mana stat in the EX category, a slew of special skills and no stat under a B- (even with Waver's debuff as Master), there was no doubt that King Solomon was the greatest of the Casters[5].

However, as a Caster, Solomon was already at a reasonable disadvantage.

In most mythologies, magic and sorcery is something otherworldly, something dangerous, and those that use them are often the corrupt and ambitious.

It is often up to the hero, a warrior with no special skills except for perhaps an enchanted weapon or divine protection to overcome this asymmetrical power difference between man and magician.

Almost every major mythological hero has, at some point, faced an evil or misleading magician, whether it be Odysseus and Circe, the many heroes of Ulster, Dorothy and the Wicked Witch of the West or Cao Cao and Zuo Ci.

As such, the vast majority of the great warrior heroes of olde—that is, the vast majority of the heroes that are summoned into the Holy Grail War, carry some measure of magic resistance. For heroic spirits, many of whom lived and fought in the midst of great sorcerers and alchemists, an inborn resistance to magic is not only useful, but nearly obligatory for those born in that time period.

Combined with the fact that any hero with even a very limited proficiency in magecraft can qualify for the rank of Caster, their inherent disadvantage translates to the general opinion that Caster is the weakest of the seven servant classes.

"Yes," Waver replied. This might also be a good time to make up for his failed attempt to establish dominance.

"Your stats are truly splendid, Caster—but stats aren't everything."

In the holy grail war, battles are not simply won by skill of arms. Though they play a major role (particularly for the traditional combat classes), most servants hold several trump cards—crystallizations of their greatest achievements and their greatest feats, the Noble Phantasm.

If normal combat were to be compared to an F-22's cannon with infinite ammunition, a noble phantasm would be an F-22's missiles—a weapon with great destructive force, but also a great power drain.

The use of a noble phantasm carries its risks—the more powerful the noble phantasm, the more well-known the legend. Overuse of a Noble Phantasm could reveal details about a servant's identity—and, since most of the servants of the war died with unfulfilled wishes, overuse could well reveal their weaknesses.

However, a noble phantasm could very well change a losing battle into a victorious one, or vice versa. A servant without a noble phantasm or a weak one would need to fight with caution.

"So you doubt my power," Caster said. Waver nodded silently.

Caster nodded. "Not unreasonable." With that, he walked out onto the distinctly un-britannian Japanese half-pedestrian, half-motor town streets.

For a moment, he simply stood there, a reasonably tall child in the street lights. And then he began to speak.

Waver smelled the words instantly.

Waver did not understand a word of what he heard—but he felt it. He felt a burst of warm wind—smelled the smell of incense, almost saw the words, like an aura—and, immediately, without quite knowing how, he knew that they were words of unsealing.

The words resonated long after the effects passed, like an afterimage ingrained into the brain.

And this, Waver realized, was Divine Tongue, the tongue long since forgotten in the modern age—the words that could cause the prophets to quail, that sounded like a mighty host, felt like a wave and looked as sharp as a double-edged sword—words that could compel creation and nature to obey with only its meaning.

True Divine Words were out of the reach of human beings, whose vocal chords, formed of mud, cannot imitate the words of God and the Angels. But Solomon, who had come closer to God than any man, could reproduce a passable imitation—one that, for all its shoddiness, contained enough power to shake Waver to the bone.

On the ground, from six points, lines of deep royal purple light extended, connecting themselves to form a Hexagram—the first hexagram, Solomon's seal.

Waver had seen Solomon's Seal countless times before—the hexagram was one of the first seals learned at clock tower. Based on Solomon's basic teachings, the Magus Association standard Seal of Solomon had been refined and improved for centuries, regulated by multiple runes and failsafes developed over centuries of research.

And yet, Waver instinctively knew, this simplistic hexagram inscribed by Solomon would be far more efficient and powerful than any hexagram used in the modern era.

"You ask for my Noble Phantasms," Caster knelt and said quietly as the hexagram faded away.

Brushing his robe, he straightened up. "Well, my master, here they are."

Waver looked around—and then stumbled back with a shout.

For he was now surrounded. On that narrow square, he noticed tens, possibly a hundred shapes—humans and humanoids, wearing robes or armor; A few animals, though each of their eyes sparkled with what had to be at least human intelligence; and, farther back, fantastic beasts—what looked like a giant lungfish; figures clouded in smoke; creatures that were made of fire, stone, or any kind of material.

Next to Waver, a genial-looking young blonde man in what looked like 17th-century gentry clothing nodded politely—in front of him, a woman of inhumanly womanly porportions stared balefully from behind a veil and facecloth; from a wall, what looked like some kind of lizard in human clothing stared unblinkingly.

Tumbling down, Waver instinctively grabbed onto Caster as a peace offering in the hopes that these beings would leave him alone.

And, Waver knew, each of these was a heroic spirit. Each of their weapons shone with the aura of noble phantasms, each of their countenances reflecting a legend in the past. There were heroes, villains and side characters among their ranks—but one thing was clear—each and every single one of them was unswervingly loyal to the boy who stood unobtrusively among them.

"These, my master, are my noble phantasms." Said Suleiman the Great, to whom Allah, the God most High, had given the right to rule all the Djinn of the world.

And then and there, Waver knew that with this servant, he had most certainly won the Holy Grail War.

"I have others, but I'll talk about them later," Caster said. Careless, he waved to the Djinn, all of whom instantly saluted and faded out of existence.

"Now," Caster said with a smile, "Let us discuss the coming war."

Waver could only nod silently.

"Also, Master…"

"Yes?"

"I am your servant, and I understand that my beauty IS unmatched…but it is quite rude to grab a woman's chest without consent."

"Oh, sorry," Waver said as he immediately let go and straightened up—and then froze.

"Wait, what?"

* * *

><p><strong>Somewhat-Omakey Afterword<strong>

Waver glared at the Caster whom, a few minutes ago, he was certain was a male. "Since when was King Solomon a girl?"

Caster shrugged. "Well, why else do you think Adonijah was sure he would become king?[6]"

"But…but Proverbs…"

"Well, I did personalize Wisdom as a woman, right?"

"This doesn't even…I don't even…" Waver spluttered.

It did make a bit of sense—Caster's unnecessarily high voice, and completely lack of facial hair made perfect sense now. But Waver really wouldn't have seen it otherwise.

"What about Songs of Solomon? Didn't you write about the beloved's Towers of Ivory? (Author's note: Breasts for anybody who isn't about to read the footnotes)[7]"

"Towers of Ivory? Let me see…" Caster frowned as h—she examined a gideon bible that Waver had accidentally brought along from the motel near JFK. "Oh, they might have mistranslated it. I might have meant a single tower of Ivor—"

Waver threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "Alright, alright, I've heard enough! You're a girl! I get it!"

"psh, pearls before swine," Caster sighed with a patronizing grin. Knowing that Caster was a girl didn't make her grins any less irritating. "The most beautiful woman of Israel and you mistook me for a boy."

Waver reddened as he glared at Caster's unspectacular chest. "Well, I couldn't tell—not like you have any towers of Ivory…"

Caster laughed contemptuously. "What am I, a nursemaid or cow, that I pride myself in the size of my breasts?"

With a proud huff, she proudly patted her nigh-nonexistent breasts. "Let me tell you, Waver Velvet, a flat chest is a status symbol! (Author's note: Not a very difficult reference)"

Waver Velvet sighed resignedly as Caster. "I don't even know what to believe anymore…"

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes and Whatever<strong>

* * *

><p>[1]<span> 7-11<span>: Though it was born in the United States, Japan now owns 7-11, and it owns about 13,000 stores in Japan (out of about 39,000 in the world). The United States, Mexico and Canada host about 10,000. Thailand and the rest of Indochina, both of which are wartorn in this story, probably don't host many, but if it's counted, then Britannia could have as many as 16,000. Depending on who owns Indochina, China holds the same amount. Europe doesn't have all that many. In Asia, 7-11s are a pretty big deal—they pack food, produce, medicine, video games and home appliances. For some reason, though, the Japanese ones apparently don't pack slurpees and Big Gulps, which raises the question of why anyone would bother going to 7-11 if they didn't pack slurpees and big gulps.

[2] Fukken Pocky: Contrary to the expectations of many early, teenybopper or just relatively uneducated anime fans who enjoy deep, obscure anime like Death Note (omg L is so hot etc.), Pocky is not actually an ubiquitous food to be eaten in all occasions in Japan, it's a light snack for god's sakes that you eat with all the ceremony of cheese-its. Of course, most of the people reading this aren't at least the Top-level wapanese _baka gaijin-san-samas de Arimasens_ or whatever that they use in an attempt to sound Japanese, but still. It's like how Chinese people imagine Hello kitty to be everywhere in Japan. It's mainly everywhere in China, or replaced by Charmy Kitty or whatever the knockoffs are.

[3] Pissing oneself: not nearly as bad as what the light novels said about what he nearly did.

[4] Yakisoba Pan –Imagine if we had a hot dog bun and we put Chow Mein in it and then ate it. That's basically a Yakisoba Pan, literally just Yakisoba bread. Yakisoba in itself is just a glorified Chinese Chow Mein with a different sauce.

[5] Stats and Parameters – All servants are graded in Stats in certain areas, with letter grades in comparison to other servants, from E to A++, with B being average-level skill. However, given that the standard of comparison is other servants, even a E in a skill for a servant is quite a long way above the skill of a well-trained but normal human. The stat EX exists, though it's only seen in one servant in Canon—it denotes a rank that is so high that it cannot be gauged in a numerical measurement. This doesn't mean it's infinite, just that it is very, very powerful. Think of the grains of sand on a beach. There is a finite number, but it is so ridiculously high that it is impractical to try to count it.

[6] Adonijah – I believe this is in 1st Kings, but after King David died and made clear Solomon was to be king, Adonijah, the oldest surviving prince (The First Prince raped the Second Prince's sister—that is, his half-sister—so the Second Prince, Absalom, killed the first prince and then led a rebellion, after which he was killed), declared himself king. However, Solomon was anointed by King David's personal guard. Later on, Adonijah wanted to take David's handmaiden for his wife (perhaps to solidify his future legitimacy), and Solomon had him killed. Both Adonijah and Absalom were known for being very beautiful, with Absalom having hair that essentially reached to his ankles (his undoing—after he was defeated, his hair got stuck in a tree. Boaz, the commander of the Israelite army, a man with no concept of overkill, thrust ten javelins into Absalom while he was stuck in a tree. Solomon killed him too).

[7] Songs of Solomon – a tiny book tucked between Ecclesiastes and the prophecy of Isaiah, written by King Solomon talking about an exchange between a lover and his beloved. In the middle ages, a lot of theologists believed it was an allegory of the love of god and all, but if you read it with no knowledge of Christianity (And even if you did), it's actually quite erotic, or as erotic as somebody in that day and age could get. "Planting" in the beloved's "garden", indeed.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Afterword<strong>

**Well, it turns out the electric plugs in Hong Kong are not the sames as the ones in Taiwan and the US, so my laptop has like an hour or two left. To conserve power, I think I'm going to finish working on this after I get an adapter. I'll respond to the reviews and make corrections then. Alright k thanks bai -CaptainSparkles**


	12. Chapter 2: The Battle of the Coral Sea

**AUTHOR'S PREFACE: First thing's first, I would like to apologize. ****I promised I would have something within 2 or 3 weeks, and it has been essentially****a whole month since I updated. I do have reasons, of course-firstly, my friends decided****to pick up DnD, which requires all the same resources as writing, and I was also meeting****them after coming home from college. Secondly, because I ran into a BIG case of writer's****block for Chapter 1. The issue here is that I know EXACTLY what I'll do for the Code Geass****part of the story, but I have a much smaller idea what to do for the Fate/Zero part, so****I needed a lot of thinking time. At the end of it, rather than have you guys wait for another****few weeks, I ended up just posting Chapter 2 first. There are no spoilers from chapter 1 here,****and the only reason it's Chapter 2 is because in my head it was chapter 2. Also, as a Disclaimer,****The Ohgi here is a Canon Ohgi, but no the one from Code Geass, but Fate/Zero's hapless 3rd lieutenant****Ohgi of the JSDF. He doesn't have the happiest ending in Fate/Zero. ****So, without ado,****this is Chapter 2 of fate/zero Eos. Leave a review if you can!**

**ALSO: Sakuradite Disturbers, a technology first mentioned in Fate/Nightmare Apatheia, is of course not an official technology, and my cowriter, HeavyValor (and clearly the technical brains of this story) has a note on it at the bottom.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>-Chapter 2 - The Second Battle of the Coral Sea-<strong>

_The general who advances without coveting fame and retreats without fearing disgrace, _

_whose only thought is to protect his country and do good service for his sovereign, is the jewel of the kingdom._

-Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

**J.D.S. _Kirishima_**

**Chinese Federation – Nation of Japan Joint Fleet Group 1**

**Pacific Ocean**

Major General Katase Tatewaki felt completely out of place on the Navigation bridge of the _Kirishima._ Around him, naval officers in white uniform worked, either unaware or uninterested in the man who stood among them.

Dressed in the Green of the Japanese Self Defense Force Army, Katase felt like the dead frog in the swimming pool.

A navy petty officer walked in, saluting stiffly to Katase before moving on.

As a bureaucratic officer, Katase was standing in for General Oguchi as the observer from High Command in Tokyo.

Given that he had been sent in the capacity of an overseer, it was natural that the Navy men felt uncomfortable around him.

From an elevated desk and seat at the center of the bridge, Captain Hasekura Yukio lounged in a position that made clear how at ease he felt on deck.

"Report?"

"Admiral Iwakura has said that Admiral Cai has ordered all ships to be battle-ready. We've found the Britannian fleet."

"Why not just skip to Admiral Cai then," Captain Hasekura grumbled. Young, handsome and in his early thirties, Captain Hasekura, like Katase, had been raised In an old samurai family, and his views on Japan's surrounding countries (Britannia and the Chinese Federation) had never stood at odds with that of his ultraconservative parents, even when his rebellious attitude had.

Yet, Katase thought to himself, Hasekura had a point. Rear Admiral Iwakura seemed a bit too deferential to Imperial Admiral Cai Yuanhai of the Imperial Chinese Navy's Beiyang Fleet. Even to Katase, it seemed as if Admiral Iwakura was simply taking orders from his Chinese Counterpart.

Katatse looked up from the bridge window at the huge hulk of the Aircraft carrier next to them, the C.F.S. _Weiyuan_, stuffed to the brim with a mix of Chinese Chengdus and modified Japanese Mitsubishi F-2s.

Admiral Iwakura had his reasons. Following occupation of Japan by Britannia following the first pacific war, Japan had acquiesced to stringent laws that limited Japan's ability to wage aggressive wars. As a result, Japan's navy lacked many of the assets required of the modern navy—heavier-duty cruisers, long-range Submarines—and the mainstay of the modern navy, the Aircraft Carrier.

The destruction of many of Britannia's most powerful battlewagon Battleships at Pearl Harbor and in the Pacific (and the later sinking of the two largest battleships in the world, the _Musashi_ and the _Yamato_) had ushered in an era of naval combat dominated by aircraft, where two fleets would be engaging each other outside of both visual range and cannon range.

While Japan had managed to rush the construction of one aircraft carrier, it had yet to be ready for deployment, and the rest of its fleet consisted only of Destroyers, Destroyer Escorts and Submarines.

Destroyers such as the _Kirishima_ did relatively little in modern warfare.

In its current state, the JNSDF would have been able to fight a battle near the shoreline, where ground-based fighters could assist—not the optimal solution.

With China's decision to "lend" Japan two aged Aircraft Carriers, Japan was now able to extend its defense into the pacific.

Not that the offer was all that generous. Including the carriers it had lent Japan, the Chinese Beiyang Fleet currently boasted eight aircraft carriers, nearly half of the total amount of Aircraft Carriers in Britannia's Pacific, Atlantic and Southern Fleets.

Given, most of these were old relics from the Cold War, when Britannia, the EU and the Federation had been united against their common enemy in the USSR. Several of the carriers bore old Britannian names, while others carried Cyrillic titles from their old service in the Soviet navy. Nevertheless, against Britannia's six carriers, the Chinese-Japanese joint fleet carried much more airpower, and thus more raw combat power.

Even for the Beiyang Fleet, the most powerful of the Chinese Imperial Fleets, this was a huge concentration of firepower—and for good reason. The stakes were high.

If the joint fleet could destroy the Britannian Pacific Fleet now, while it was still united, it would cut off supply transportation to Britannian forces in Indochina, paving the way for a Chinese offensive, and secure Japan from any land invasion. It would mean an immediate end to the pacific theatre for a long time.

This battle could win the Second Pacific War.

Katase really wished he would be able to get back to tell General Oguchi that they had won it.

* * *

><p><strong>H.M.S. <em>Polaris<em>**

**Britannian Oriental Fleet, Pacific Command**

**Pacific Ocean, En Route to Japan**

"General Quarters, General Quarters; all hands, report to stations; All hands report to stations."

The sound of pounding feet seemed to surround the cramped mess hall. Navy officers clambered up ladders, down ladders, and through bulkheads towards their various duties and stations.

"Check," Kayeri Brant said glumly, prodding his rook several spaces forwards.

"Dumb move," Dorothea Ernst replied with a grin as she reached from her side of the table to knock over one of Kayeri's other pieces.

"Erm…"

"You're really not good at this," Dorothea remarked with a slightly gloating grin.

"Dorothea."

Dorothea stopped in midgloat as she smirked at Kayeri's slightly skeptical face. "Sore loser? Anyone around us can tell you that that was a legal move."

Kayeri rolled his eyes. "Dorothea, anyone around us can tell you that I had been playing this game with Monica before you came over here and took over." Across the table, Monica Kruszewski gave a deferential smile that managed to convey the discomfort of having been essentially stuffed into the wall by Dorothea's overbearing playstyle.

Dorothea blinked, in a way that seemed almost as if she actually had forgotten that Monica had been present. "Oh, sorry, Monica. Carry on."

Kayeri sighed. "Guess it's my turn." He raised his hand to move a piece—just as a hand reached out, snatched another piece and moved it.

"Dumb move," Kotori sighed with all the patience of a mildly-annoyed mother. "You're opening up your queen."

"Well then will you trade away your rook?" Dorothea replied with a provocative grin.

"Well I'll move here—"

"—stupid move—"

Kayeri and Monica sighed resignedly as Dorothea and Kotori embarked on a battle neither had started with all the gusto of Germany and Russia picking up Austria-Hungary and Serbia's relatively minor feud[1].

"God, I really need sunlight," Kayeri moaned pitifully over Dorothea and Kotori's verbal sparring. Since the first few days, the crew of the _Polaris_ had insisted on keeping the Knightmare Corps (lampshading as the Army Engineering Corps) under the decks of the flattop[2].

"This ship is pretty cramped," Monica replied in lieu of agreement. To be honest, she wasn't quite sure how the seamen could survive in such a cramped system of corridors, rooms and walkways, all with just enough clearance to collide with your head if you forgot to duck.

"Why aren't they letting us get our Vitamin D? I want my Vitamin D," Kayeri grumbled.

Monica said nothing—it seemed rather inopportune to point out that part of the reason was that Captain Owen King had, in his state of omnipresent inebriation, nearly fallen off the top of the carrier under the impression that he was a dolphin. Only quick action and a lot of flailing by Kayeri, Lloyd and a few nearby seamen had kept him from smacking into what could possibly have been a painfully solid watery grave[3].

"I can't believe I was getting into this," Kayeri groaned. He seemed rather happy at this point to have left Naval Aviation.

Lloyd Harkins took this time to enter the mess hall and spot the chess game going on.

"Erm, guys, we're about to come under attack."

"Not like we can do anything about it," Kayeri replied.

"True enough," Lloyd sighed as he sat down. For a former Army man, he had acclimated rather well into the ship, and several of the seamen had greeted him as they ran past to their battle stations.

Lloyd glanced at Kayeri and Monica. "Isn't it kind of worrying? Knowing our lives are completely in the hands of someone else?"

Kayeri shrugged as he motioned at Kotori, who didn't notice. "Actually, I know that feeling pretty damn well."

Monica and Lloyd both laughed uncomfortably. Kayeri was a bit loaded with expectations, both as the son of the head of what was the most powerful native organizations in Britannia and a political bride to Kotori.

"Not to mention we're kind of lacking in manpower," Dorothea added. "What were they thinking, sending only two Aircraft Carriers?" Ignoring the older light carriers filled with the three divisions of the Knightmare Corps, this current task force only contained two flattops loaded with fighters. The short-ranged F-22s they carried were more than a match one-on-one with Chinese Chengdu J-20s and Japan's Mitsubishi F-15 derivatives—but the rumors of an eight-carrier strike force were pretty prevalent on board the ship, and nobody was quite sure China's newest Chengdu would be 25% that of an F-22.

"No use deploying knightmares if we can't even get them on shore," Kayeri grumbled.

* * *

><p><strong>C.F.S. <em>Zhenyuan<em>**

**Chinese Federation – Nation of Japan Joint Fleet Group 1**

**Pacific Ocean**

The admiral's bridge of the flagship of the Chinese Beiyang Fleet was filled with electronic displays. Transparent LCD screens showed readouts of ship information, along with constant updates from the other ships in the fleet.

Technicians and Adjutants discussed and reported information to each other, the neurons of the Beiyang Fleet's nervous system.

At the center of this bustle, Imperial Grand Admiral Cai Yuanhai felt completely out of place.

In the past few decades, the Chinese Navy had advanced from a fleet that required telephones to reach the engineering deck to a world of electronic gadgets that had long since become completely otherworldly to the 72-year old general.

Sitting at the center, dressed in the curious half-_hanfu_, half-western uniform style that had almost gotten him arrested by the High Eunuchs (after all, it had been popularized by former Prime Minister Jiang Weilin and his dedication to a mix of western and Eastern ideals), Yuanhai felt as if he didn't belong in this generation.

Next to him, CPO Singh was handling most of the orders. The young Sikh (whose bushy beard made Yuanhai's wispy beard look like a tree in front of a forest) seemed to handle this new generation of technology a lot better than he did.

Technology wasn't the only thing that had changed.

"…to think that one day we'd be allied against the Japanese against Britannia," Yuanhai sighed as he leaned back on his Admiral's chair.

For most of his life, the Chinese Federation had treated Britannia as its erstwhile ally against Japan, the nation that had humiliated China twice in the past. The Beiyang fleet, of China's six territorial fleets, had always received the most funding as China's first defense against further Japanese aggression.

Times had changed, though. Economics and realpolitik have erased blood feuds, for better or for worse, and today, the fleet designed for much of its history to destroy the Japanese fleet now sailed alongside it.

"I'm getting too old for this," Yuanhai sighed.

A report from one of the adjutants caused CPO Singh to turn around.

"Admiral, Admiral Iwakura is on the line," he reported in perfect Chinese.

"That man loves video calls," Yuanhai sighed as he waved his hands dismissively. "Put him on the screen."

Moments later, the closely cropped hair and short handlebar moustache of Masao Iwakura showed up on the screen, dressed in the immaculate white of the Japanese navy.

"Admiral Cai, forward scouts seem to be reporting four carriers and many personnel transports, but a large amount of destroyers, cruisers and battlecruisers performing anti-sub routines."

"Only four carriers?" Yuanhai twirled his wispy beard with his hand contemplatively. In the post-battleship era, battlecruisers were the closest thing to the old big-gun dreadnoughts of the pan-European war. In the era of ICBMs and cruise missiles, both the EU and Chinese Federation no longer even maintained the cruiser designation (though Russia, as an unwilling member of the EU, maintained cruisers). To send relatively archaic dreadnoughts with insufficient air cover was a mistake that hadn't been made since the battleship _Victoria_ had been sunk in the first Pacific War (there was also the _Yamato_ and the _Musashi_, but in both cases, the Japanese had intended for both ships to be sunk).

Four carrier groups' worth of planes was still a very large air force—but to defend a land attack force?

"Moreover," Iwakura continued, "two of the carriers don't seem to have any planes ready to launch, despite being in range."

_Stranger and stranger._ Britannian equipment was undoubtedly better than Chinese equipment and, at the very least, just as good as Japanese equipment. If the Japanese could detect the Britannians, the Britannians had most definitely detected the Chinese. So why hadn't they deployed their own jets? Were they expecting two carriers' worth of planes to fend off eight's?

"Admiral," Singh interjected quietly, "I think I smell a rat."

Yuanhai nodded slowly. There was something definitely up there.

"Admiral Iwakura, I would think it better to withdraw for now. The Britannians probably have something going on."

Iwakura, meanwhile, turned to his own subordinate and whispered.

"This isn't going to sit well with them," Singh murmured. He was, of course, right. To withdraw now would be paramount to allowing the Britannian fleet to close in on Japan. If no second engagement was launched, the Britannians would have a clear shot straight into Japan.

Finally, a slightly flustered-looking Admiral Iwakura looked back at the screen. "Admiral Cai, with all due respect, you don't expect to abandon us, do you?"

"No, Admiral. But this situation seems way too convenient. I should say we withdraw for now until either of our nations can provide more intelligence."

"At which it will be far too late," Iwakura's subordinate said, ignoring decorum.

Yuanhai's expression didn't alter. It was natural that the Japanese would take offense from this. Not that he cared all too much. "Admiral, pushing forward with this risks jeopardizing the whole joint fleet."

Iwakura, for all his pallor, was unmoved. "Abandoning this risks jeopardizing Japan."

Yuanhai was about to explain exactly how much he cared when a new sound caused an adjutant to report to Singh. Muting Iwakura and his subordinate, Yuanhai turned to Singh.

"What news is it?"

"It's from the Capital. We are ordered to sortie against the Britannian fleet immediately."

Yuanhai closed his eyes. Of course the Eunuchs would order them to attack, given they knew absolutely nothing about strategy.

Singh glanced meaningfully at the Admiral. "Admiral, are we going to follow these orders?"

Yuanhai was aware there was the possibility of refusing. After all, that was he and several other members of the Chinese military were planning on doing eventually.

If he could contact them in time, it was possible that they could mobilize on the capital…

Admiral Yuanhai sighed as he brought Admiral Iwakura back up to the screen.

"Alright, Admiral, we'll do it your way."

It was only a year after the abortive new year's coup—the Eunuchs would be in high alert. He would have to simply win this battle and buy some time.

Admiral Iwakura's face immediately broke into a smile. "At your orders, Admiral."

Yuanhai didn't reciprocate, merely nodding with a noncommittal "mmm" before turning back to his subordinates.

"CPO Singh, tell _Weiyuan _and the other aircraft carriers to prep for sortie."

Admiral Iwakura, meanwhile, wasn't quite finished.

"Admiral, I think that our two nations can cooperate very well—"

"Admiral Iwakura," Yuanhai interrupted, "where are you from?"

Iwakura blinked. "Erm, Japan?"

"Where in Japan?"

"Osaka, Admiral. Why..."

"Funny," Yuanhai replied with a dry laugh. "My father was from the Kansai area as well. Apparently he had the distinctive accent."

Even Singh and the other officers on deck looked surprised. Nobody had mentioned anything about the notoriously reticent Admiral Cai Yuanhai being half-japanese.

"Never met him or his side of the family, I'm afraid. After Pearl Harbor, he was withdrawn back to Japan to defend the Empire there."

Yuanhai, meanwhile, had gotten down from his dias to Singh's monitor.

"Not that I knew my mother's side of the family all too well either. Because my father, and the rest of the Japanese army killed them. You see, I was born in Nanjing in 1938."

There was an instant change in Iwakura's expression. Nanjing was a sensitive topic within the Japanese military (And, indeed, Japanese society). Due to a lack of discipline (and, depending on the individual, possibly tacit agreement on the part of the officers in command), a doomed defense by poorly defended and demoralized Chinese troops against Japanese troops that had just went through the first difficult battle of the Sino-Japanese war[4] ended in a loss of discipline among Japanese ranks and a massacre that many western journalists referred to as the Rape of Nanking. Though both General Oguchi of the JSDF and "General" Nagano of Japan's old guard were explicit about admitting to great failures in the Chinese Theatre, where were many among both Japan's national army and the nationalist Old Guard who either debated the scale or the veracity of the massacre. Yuanhai, though, wasn't particularly concerned about which side Iwakura happened to be on.

"I am aware that you have the cooperation of the Chinese Federation, Admiral Iwakura—but if you're hoping for cooperation from the Chinese people, you had best look elsewhere."

Clicking the disconnect, Yuanhai turned back to his shocked bridge.

"Tell the aircraft carriers that they're clear to launch."

* * *

><p>"Tianxing 1, Positioning."<p>

The hurry in the crew of the _Weiyuan_ was quite clear. There were 72 J-20 Chengdu to launch, and not an awful lot of time to launch them. As the other waiting Chengdu waited, the ground crews secured the wheels of Tianxing 1 to the shuttle, the moving portion of the carrierborne catapult designed to propel a modern fighter such as the Chengdu into the air.

From the transparent catapult control pod, the catapult officer watched as the other deck officers stood clear.

With a slow drone, the dual engines of the Chengdu came alive.

"Launching in 3…2…1…mark."

With a hiss of steam, the long-range fighter shot off the deck. For a moment, it dropped seawards—and then rose again as it reached enough speed to keep itself alight.

"Tianxing 1, away."

There was a cheer from the ground crew—but a short one. On the other catapults, Tianxing 2 was already being prepped for launch.

"Tianxing 3, positioning."

"We've got fighters, inbound. All hands, repeat, to battle stations."

"F-22s…beautiful things."

"Yep."

"Any chance you could lend me one of those F-22s?"

"Sorry, sir, orders are orders."

"Pity," Captain Owen King sighed in one of his unusual sober states. "I guess it's to be expected for me."

From the bridge on the control tower of the _Polaris_, King could see the complement of 6 F-22s that had been squeezed among the Glasgows on board the Polaris. Sleek and streamlined, they resembled the more antiquated fighters the former Air Force pilot had flown in his prime. Doused with adipose tissue and alcohol, Captain King's piloting reflexes nevertheless frayed at his nerves as he watched fighter after fighter launch from the deck.

Behind him, Captain Rebecca Ellis Lee tried to hide her trepidation. As a member of the Purists, Lee had heard of the Kings, with their illustrious history following the Crown's flight to America. She had also heard about Owen King, the current head of that family.

The general consensus reached by the rest of the purists was that Pacific War Wing Commander and War Hero Joseph King's magazine of genetic ammunition, seemingly inexhaustible with the wives of other men (a running joke within the purists was that 65% of the current generation were related to Joseph King), had run dry when it came to his own wife.

The hapless man had managed to bump his way through the Air Force academy with glowing praise for his flying abilities and borderline failing grades for every class.

With the rest of the King family dead after a family party went wrong, the Purists had essentially been more or less stuck with Owen.

Through what some attributed to pure luck and what others attributed to a lot of alcohol, King had managed to make headlines as a minor war hero in the battle against Gran Colombian insurgents in Area 6 before impregnating a native, failing the officer's academy and spiraling what could have been an illustrious career into the dirt.

In deference to his lineage, the purists had managed to handwave most of the charges leveled against King from a fair decade of womanizing, drunkenness and bar fights, shunting him to an obscure military program for his piloting skills.

Most of the purists had assumed that Owen King would slowly fade away, allowing them to raise his daughter, the next head of the King house, in peace.

_To think that he'd end up on the ship I happened to command_, Rebecca thought.

Her father Robert III had never had a very high opinion of Owen, and the fact that her men had to restrain him from dolphin-diving over the deck of her ship.

She had been tempted to shut him in the brig.

Obsolete aircraft carrier or not, she was not about to bear witness to the first fatality onboard the H.M.S. _Polaris_.

However, King still held a lot of prestige, and so, under the guise of welcoming an honored guest, Rebecca had brought King under her supervision.

For the last half a week, he had managed to stay inebriated despite all attempts by the seamen to find alcohol on his person around his flirting.

As if he had followed her train of thought, King turned around. "If you're worrying about the deck incident, don't worry about it. I won't do it again." "I wasn't worrying about that, Sir," Rebecca replied with a placating tone.

Owen, though, grinned a haggard grin.

"Of course you were. Can't have me vomiting all over the place or jumping over the deck, can we?"

For somebody in his thirties, Owen King still had some charm. Several years of alcoholism had not dampened the boyish good looks that had been left him by his father, though they had managed to apply to them a noticeable lining of fat. His smile, though, looked like that of someone ten years older, a sad, self-deprecating smile that made Rebecca feel some amount of pity.

"Can't say I blame them, though," King remarked in a tone that felt way too offhanded as he looked out the window at the last of the F-22s. "I haven't been the best of soldiers. Or Husbands. Or Fathers."

Rebecca said nothing.

"I'm sure you've heard of my daughter Mackenzie, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir, of course."

The general consensus was that some kind of pity vote by every other sperm in Mary King's uterus had allowed the village idiot to fertilize the egg that would become Owen King. If there was one thing Owen King had done right in his life, it seemed that his sperm had their priorities straight. Mackenzie was considered a rising star by the Purists, everything Owen was not.

"She seems to be doing well enough," Owen remarked with a tone of happiness—and definite pride. "She's going into the Air Force Officer's Academy…just like her grandfather…" Rebecca noted how he hadn't mentioned her father, who had flunked out of the academy. Oblivious, King took out a well-creased sheet of something and handed it to Rebecca. As she unfolded it, she realized it was a photo, one of the older glossy film-and-shutter-based photos as opposed to digital-camera based printouts. The photo quality wasn't the best, but Rebecca could clearly make out a younger, notably less-seedy looking Owen, holding a cherubic-looking sleeping baby swaddled in what Rebecca hoped was not an Air Force Dress Jacket.

"That's Mackenzie and me, while we were at the Officer's academy." Owen smiled fondly. "She's adorable, isn't she?"

"Yeah," Rebecca said with all sincerity. _Nothing like the one today…_

"To think of it…that she's managed to grow up so well even with her failure of her father…" there was an unmistakable tone of pride in King's voice, and an undertone of wistfulness.

"I wonder…you know Mackenzie, right?"

Rebecca nodded. Mackenzie had been raised in the Lee household, and Rebecca, though over ten years Mackenzie's senior, talked with her often.

"Does she ever talk about me?"

At that moment, Rebecca's XO spoke up. "Ma'am, entering combat zone in two minutes."

"Ah, alright. Stevens, can you escort King back to his quarters?"

Stevens saluted.

Owen smiled sadly as he turned to go.

At the last moment, Rebecca spoke up. "Yes. She speaks of you often!"

For a moment, Owen stopped, causing Stevens to bump into him. When he turned around, he was smiling a grin that seemed to belong to someone twenty years younger.

"Thanks, Captain Lee. You've made this old Failure's day."

Rebecca watched the man go before sighing.

She didn't have the heart to tell him that Mackenzie hadn't mentioned him once in the last five years.

She put her hand to her face—and noticed that the photo was still in her hand.

She'd have to return it to Captain King later.

For now, she had a battle to fight.

"Commander Vasquez, what are our orders?"

* * *

><p>"Men," Admiral Cai Yuanhai said into the console from the bridge of the <em>Zhenyuan<em>, "We've come a long way from home.

To many of us, this battle doesn't seem to be ours to fight.

We owe nothing to Japan. They can be crushed by the Britannians for all we care.

But this is important for the Federation as well.

At this time, thousands of our men are desperately fighting for the federation in Annam."

This isn't about saving Japan, but protecting our people in Annam.

Once we win this, we can cut off all Britannian resupply there and isolate them.

Our boys have been waiting for a chance to drive the Britannians to the sea.

The Army is waiting to do their job.

Let's do ours.

So I say, fuck the Britannians, and fuck the Japanese.

We do this for the Emperor, the Federation, and nobody else."

Yuanhai paused.

_Not even the Eunuchs._

"Are we clear?"

From the bridge, and from the video feeds of countless ships and fighters, the soldiers of the Chinese Federation replied "Yes, sir" in unison.

"Then best of luck and godspeed. Long live the Emperor!"

* * *

><p>"Diablo 2, in position."<p>

With a roar, the Mitsubishi F-2 of Third Lieutenant Kobayashi drew into position behind 1st Lieutenant Imai Ohgi's F-2 (Author's Note: this is not Kaname Ohgi from Code Geass, but Lieutenant Ohgi from Fate/Zero. Keep that in mind). Behind them, the rest of Diablo group also stood ready. Around them, other F-2s and Chinese Chengdu roared at several times the speed of sound.

From the radio, a heavily-accented voice spoke in Japanese.

"Tianxing 1 to Diablo 1, do you copy?"

"Diablo 1, Copying."

"Proceed with plan 2, over."

"Proceeding with plan 2, we copy."

"Alright. Good luck. Tianxing 1, out."

In a salute, Tianxing 1's Chengdu tipped its wing before streaking off with the rest of Tianxing.

"Showoffs," Lieutenant Kobayashi muttered over the radio.

Ohgi could feel the sweat underneath his gloves.

This would be Japan's first salvo against Britannia since the first Pacific War. Ohgi and Diablo squadron would be the first to face the Britannian Air Force, the greatest in the world.

Ohgi closed his eyes. No use panicking now.

"Alright, Diablo…let's do this! For Japan!"

* * *

><p>"Enemy aircraft in visual range…engaging!"<p>

"Hawkeye 3, missiles away!"

"Hawkeye 6, bugging out and releasing flares!"

"Enemy Chengdu, confirmed missile launch!"

"Hawkeye 5, be advised, bogey at seven o'clock."

"Copy, thanks for the heads up Hawkeye 1."

The bridge of the _Polaris_ was suddenly filled with radio chatter and activity as information from the Flight Control above the bridge was relayed.

Almost out of eyesight, Britannian F-22s were engaging their Japanese F-2 and Chinese Chengdu equivalents.

Captain Rebecca Lee could only watch the readout. This was no longer in the hands of either she or the crew of the _Polaris_, but on the skill of the pilots.

Even in the era of long-range missiles, dogfights (or, as they are known now, Air Combat Maneuvering) have not become obsolete—abrupt maneuvers and movements are still more than enough to, combined with chaff and flares, avoid even guided missiles, as many fighters of the Indochina war had discovered.

From what Rebecca had read, dogfights were not about speed, but about maneuverability. Most dogfighting maneuvers require a relatively low speed, and an aircraft's value in a dogfight lies in its mobility.

In that mobility, the short range F-22 still holds superiority. As dedicated a Air Superiority Fighter, the F-22's maneuverability easily exceeds that of the obsolete Japanese F-2s and stands somewhat better than the multirole Chengdu J-20, whose long range and limited stealth abilities sacrifice maneuverability and speed.

However, with fewer birds in the sky, the Britannian pilots would lose a lot of the advantage conferred upon them by their technological edge.

"Hawkeye 2 reports Japanese F-2s flying Luffberys, please confirm."

With a subsonic roar [5], Hawkeye 1 veered in a steep circle, the steepest that the F-22 could perform.

"Hawkeye 1, yep, that's a Luffbery."

With a noticeable technological deficiency, the Japanese F-15 models were flying tight circles around each other, the Lufbery Circle. The angle and placement meant that a Britannian F-22 engaging any individual F-2 would risk taking fire from the other F-2s in a circle.

"The Chinese did this to us in Annam," Hawkeye 4 noted. The pilot of the F-22 that was Hawkeye 4 was a veteran who had fought in the Annam campaign, where older-generation interceptors had been loaded only with missiles that could not lock against the circle.

"Hawkeyes, switch to your cannon, strafe them as they pass."

"Copy—shit, Hawkeye 3, missile lock, five—no, six o'clock."

There was a tone of panic in Hawkeye 3's voice. Taking a glance above him, Hawkeye 1 just barely noticed the Britannian wings of a F-22 that screamed past, with a blur hot on its tail.

"Launch flares, Hawkeye 3!"

Hawkeye 4's warning came a moment too late, as a cone-shaped gout of flame escaped from the F-22's fuselage, leaving only a few pieces of wreckage ejecting in its wake.

"Did he eject? Do you see a parachute? Anyone see 5th Lieutenant Pace?"

There was a moment of sudden complete radio silence as the other pilots tried to see what they hoped would be a parachute.

Nothing came out.

"He'll be out in a second," Hawkeye 6 muttered. He didn't sound very convincing.

"He's down," Hawkeye 1 said loudly.

"Sir—"

"He's down," Hawkeye 1 said firmly. If his squadron got any more distracted, there would be major problems. "And we will too if we stay distracted. Get back in the game."

"…Yes sir." With a roar, the F-22s returned into the fray.

Gradually, though, the superior quality of the F-22s seemed to be asserting themselves. Several Chinese and Japanese fighters streaked towards the water, trailing smoke and flames.

Yet, for their losses, the Chinese and Japanese pilots didn't seem to panic, tightening their Lufbery circles.

And it struck Hawkeye 1 as odd.

_For fighters that sortied against ours, they haven'te ven tried to break through towards our fleet yet._

_For a force that should be attacking, wasn't it a bit too…defensive?_

And then the flight command on the _Polaris_ spoke into the radio.

"Enemy aircraft, inbound from starboard."

* * *

><p>"Oy, what are you doing?" The flight deck crew on the deck of the aircraft carrier H.M.S. <em>Lionheart<em> yelled as they heard the flight elevator. The fighter complement of the _Lionheart_ had already launched—the flight elevator should have been deactivated.

"Those engineers," they muttered as a group of men in Army Engineering Corps uniforms entered the deck, escorting some kind of crate on a heavy lifter.

"Get off the deck! This is for flight deck crew only," the Catapult Officer yelled indignantly as he stepped out from his launch booth.

"My, my, what exclusivism," Lloyd Asplund (Author's note: the OC is Lloyd Harkins, keep that in mind) remarked with a carefree grin as he tried to walk past the officer. "You can't save all the sunlight for yourself—we've been cooped up under the deck for a week, you know…"

"Well, orders are orders. All of you lot get back down under the deck before—Sir!"

Everyone on deck except Lloyd saluted as Knight of One Bismark Waldstein stepped onto the deck, seemingly oblivious to the argument he had entered.

"Specialist Asplund is here on my orders," Bismark said simply, though everyone on deck flinched slightly at the man and his enclosed left eyelid.

"Y-yes, milord," the catapult officer said before stepping back with mutters about giving the Army whatever they want.

Having watched the deck flight crew stalk off, Bismark looked at the crate as some of the other technicians began unbolting the walls.

"Specialist Asplund, do you have everything you need?"

With an unconcerned smile, Lloyd nodded.

"Of course, of course. Now could you leave us alone for a moment? Us mechanics are awfully delicate people…"

* * *

><p>"Tianxing 1, confirming visual."<p>

Grimly, Lieutenant Cheng Seishun reported as his group of Chengdu whistled over the sea. Far ahead, he could see the outline of the Britannian Fleets.

"Tianxing 2, reporting, I don't see any birds in the sky."

"Admiral Yuanhai was right," Seishun muttered.

The Britannians had deployed their full fighter escort in the main engagement against the Japanese craft and the Chinese main force.

Meaning they would be perfect prey for the flanking force—a single aircraft carrier's complement of 72 Chengdu.

Flying close to the water to augment its imperfect stealth coating, the Chengdu J-20 was in its element. Neither very fast nor very maneuverable, the Chengdu wasn't made to be an air superiority fighter such as the F-22, and its lauded stealth ability is also partially mitigated by its shape.

The Chengdu's strength is in range. More than double the effective range of the F-22, the Chengdu is built as a long-range interceptor/fighter-bomber—relatively ineffective in air combat with dedicated fighters, but far more capable than the F-22s in everything else.

From casualty reports, almost half of the Chinese-Japanese main force had already been downed in battle—a steep price.

If Seishun and the strike force could take out the Britannian carriers, though, that would be the end of all Britannian attacks in the Pacific.

Cheng Seishun knew many of the men in the strike force, and he knew it would be unlikely that all of them made it—but if they could defeat the Britannians here, their deaths wouldn't be for nothing.

"Remember, men, target the carriers. The destroyers and cruisers are of only minor importance. For the Emperor!"

"May the Emperor live ten thousand years and then ten thousand ten thousand years," his men repeated.

"Enemy ships in range."

Seishun nodded. "Fire at will."

With a hiss and a visible shudder, the Chengdu disgorged their Russian Kh-59MK missiles. As if relieved at the loss of its burden, the Chengdu seemed to rise with relief.

"Missiles away."

The Russian-built Kh-59MK cruise missiles packed on the Chengdu would switch to optical targeting within a 10km range.

"Tianxing s, slow down for missile guidance, but prepare to sortie right behind the missiles."

"Copy, Tianxing 1. Right behind you."

* * *

><p>"Enemy missiles, inbound."<p>

"We have one…two…well, a lot of missiles inbounds, with fighters behind them."

There was an air of suppressed panic on the bridge of the _Polaris_—while it was armed with a few anti-air and anti-missile assets, the bulky Aircraft Carrier would not be hard to miss—and odds were that not every missile would be intercepted.

Captain Rebecca Lee turned to XO Vasquez. "Get the CIWS and Sea sparrows up and running."

Vasquez, though, looked a little confused. To be exact, he looked as if someone had lost their mind. "Ma'am, I just got new orders from Admiral Miller."

"And they are?"

Vasquez's quizzical expression was echoed in the awkward way with which his order trailed into a question. "Prepare to power down all engines and generators after launching Sea Sparrows…?"

"Erm."

The Sea Sparrows would help intercept the missiles, but they were far from perfect, and there was a lot of doubt about its performance. Without the CIWS anti-missile gatling guns, there was a danger.

Vasquez looked a little worried as well. "Ma'am, I don't know either. Do we disobey?"

The whole bridge seemed to be turning towards the two of them.

"Goddamn it. We'll do it. Get Engineering to shut down the generators[6]."

* * *

><p>"Here they come," Lloyd Asplund said with a pleasant grin. A hundred meters away from him, a RIM-162 Sea Sparrow launcher reared its head and fired, disgorging a single missile toward one of the innumerable dots streaking towards the carrier.<p>

"We ready?"

Behind him, several grim-looking technicians nodded. "Yes, milord. Did we have to be on the deck…?" Lloyd smiled. There was an unspoken challenge in that question—the possibility of "what if something goes wrong?"

_Of course nothing will go wrong,_ Lloyd thought to himself. _I built it._

"It's the best view, don't you think?"

He turned back to the opened crate and the creature that stood within, what looked like the bastard child of a refrigerator and a radar system in its puberty-ridden years.

"Milord…deploying in 3."

In the air, Seventy-two Kh-59MK anti-ship cruise missiles streaked seven meters above the waves, each bearing 320 kilograms of warhead, enough to sink a destroyer. Three struck the water, their internal inertial guidance systems awry.

"2."

In midair, they collided with the cloud of Sea Sparrows. With a burst of smoke and flames, the sky lit up as twenty-two emerged, clear of the wall of missiles meant to bring them down.

"1."

Disobeying orders, the Cruiser _Kieran T. King_ and Destroyer _John Byron _opened fire with their computer-guided Phalanx CIWS Gatling guns. Four cruise missiles erupted into flame, intercepted by the hail of bullets. Eighteen shot through the bursts of foam, on a clear path to their targets.

From the deck of the _Lionheart_, Lloyd Asplund smiled as the other engineers started to duck.

"0."

* * *

><p>"What—" Cheng Seishun blinked as his video missile guidance suddenly went black—a sign that it had been shot down.<p>

_There was nothing in the way…_

And then, abruptly, his HUD deactivated completely.

* * *

><p>With their engines still firing wildly, the eight ASM cruise missiles seemed to go insane, spiraling into the air or striking the water.<p>

With a whine, a missile shot past Lloyd Asplund's head, missing by only a few meters as it spiraled past uselessly before slamming into the water across the bow of the cruiser _Yorktown_, its guidance completely disrupted.

An engineer got up from where he had fallen to the floor. "It…worked. The Sakuradite disturber worked."

Lloyd, though, seemed unperturbed. "Not quite yet, Johnson. The main show is about to start."

He pointed towards the squadron of Chengdu that now glided silently through the air.

* * *

><p>"Shit, shit, shit," Cheng Seishun muttered as he looked at his cockpit. All the displays, radars—all of them were dark. Behind him, he heard nothing—the jet engine, too, had cut out.<p>

"Haiying 1 to group, I've lost power. Bailing out."

There was no response—not even radio noise.

_Shit._

The radio had lost power too. He took a quick glance around him—it seemed as if the pilots on Haiying 2 and 3 were also desperately trying to communicate.

_Something took down all the electrical equipment? At once?_

Slowly losing altitude, the Chengdu J-20 streaked towards the waves.

With the G-forces forcing him against his seat, Seishun pulled the control stick up with all his might—and then, with an impact that threatened to rip Seishun out of his crash webbing, the J-20 collided with the water.

"Haiying 1, bailing out," he yelled to the radio, even as he knew nobody would hear him.

Reaching to the ejection seat release, he just managed to thumb it.

Instantly, with a blast of flame, the cockpit of the J-20 was blown apart as another blast sent Seishun flying.

He had heard in the past that pilots who had ejected had come out alive, but several centimeters shorter. Right now, he could feel why—14gs worth of atmospheric pressure bore down on him, seemingly threatening to collapse his spine. All around him, he could see the other pilots of Haiying Squadron, some clawing their way out of their cockpits with survival knives, others ejecting like him.

With a splash, his seat slammed into the water, buoyed by the airbag intended to cushion the landing impact. Tearing out his helmet, he waved to one of his wingmen who clearly had not managed to get a flotation device. "Haiying 3! Sarika!"

Sarika, a short-haired, rather burly pilot, swam over.

"Well, that was a mess," she yelled through gasps as she tried to clamber onto the flotation device with Seishun's assistance.

"I didn't know the Britannians had a weapon like this."

"Me neither."

Sarika shook her head. "…We're fucked now, aren't we?"

Seishun nodded. "God help our navy."

"God help us. I hope the Britannians are in the mood to take prisoners."

* * *

><p>Lloyd Asplund nodded proudly as the flight deck crew and engineering looked at the floundering Chinese federation pilots in the waters around them.<p>

"The Sakuradite Disturber. Constantly launches a pulse of electromagnetic radiation that disrupts electric equipment. Swats guided missiles and fighters out of the sky.[7]

Not bad, huh?."

* * *

><p>"Tianxing 1! Tianxing wing, respond!"<p>

"Kanpur Squadron, respond!"

"No response from Chungmugong Squadon."

Panic prevailed on the radio as the remnants of Diablo and the other Chinese Federation and Japanese squadrons. That a whole carrier's worth of fighters had vanished off the radar was more than a little worrying, especially to the other seven carriers' worth of exhausted pilots.

"Is the strike force down?"

"Why are we still here then?"

"Haiying's already lost more than half their unit. We're just getting killed here."

Diablo 1's Lieutenant Ohgi felt the cold sweat that ran all over his body. With the strike force failed, the main force of the fleet was now fighting a meaningless battle. They couldn't break through towards the Britannian fleet, and, outside of their formations, they'd be vulnerable to pursuing fire.

Yet most of the F-2s and Chengdus were now low on ammunition and missiles.

"The hell are we going to do?"

The other squadron members and leaders also remained painfully indecisive, even as the Britannian fighters continued to whittle down their numbers.

"We need to retreat back to the fleet without the F-22s chasing us down," Ohgi explained. "The moment we break out of formation, we're going to be subject to pure pursuit[8]. We're going to need some cover until we get back to the carriers."

"Whoever's going out of cover is going to be cut apart," Khmer 2, standing in for his dead squadron leader, commented—just as, with a screech, Diablo 2 detached from the position, streaking back for the fleet.

Ohgi prepared to stop, but Diablo 6 beat him to it.

"Diablo 2, what are you doing—shit—" With a conflagration of flame, Diablo 6 spun out of control, hurtling towards the pacific.

"Shit—disperse! Disperse!"

Ohgi, mentally (and physically) cursing Kobayashi's decision to desert, turned his F-2 straight downwards, flipping his plane back up in a simple split S maneuver. The other survivors of the main force had long since lost their composure—Kobayashi's desertion had broken the discipline of a unit whose morale had already been severely damaged.

Diagonal to Diablo 1's F-2, Hawkeye 1's F-22 looped over in a tight kulbit maneuver, a tight circle that seemed to make Diablo's Split-S large and extravagant.

* * *

><p>Calmly, methodically, Hawkeye 1 lined up the crosshairs of his HUD on the vehicle on which another human being now rode.<p>

"For Lieutenant Pace," Hawkeye 1 muttered as he squeezed the trigger.

An F-22's General Electric M61 Vulcan packs 480 rounds, enough to last a little less than five seconds in full auto (this rarely happens, though, as many Vulcans are equipped in burst fire modes). Hawkeye 1 repeatedly depressed for trigger for nearly that amount.

Bright tracers leaped across the gap between the two planes, blooming flowers of flame where they connected. Finally, in one big bloom of smoke, Diablo 1, carrying the body of its pilot, began its rapidly-accelerating descent into the pacific.

"Stay on their tails, Hawkeyes, we're following them."

"We're not returning to the fleet?"

"We are. To their fleet."

* * *

><p>"Powering up…"<p>

With a drone, the various displays on board the Cruiser _Kieran T. King_ came back alive, booting up and reloading the various operating systems related to the operation of the modern warship in one big line of source code and loading screens.

Captain Adrian Fleming glanced over his bridge with irritation.

_Incompetents._

Some idiot, in a panic, had activated the CIWS against orders. Not unexpected for a group of new sailors who had never been in a combat situation.

Ignoring the fact that he had never been in a combat situation, the captain growled in what he believed was a captain-like way. "How are we?"

"Captain, generator is running smoothly. Weapons are online, and we can move by your order."

Captain Fleming leaned back on his chair. It was great feeling in charge. "Alright, all troops prepare for battle. We're heading towards the enemy fleets."

"Yes, captain. Getting ready to launch Harpoons."

"Oh, and the Mark 45."

The gunnery officer turned around in surprise. The Mark 45 5-inch gun, the last remnant in an age where the size of a ship's cannons dictated its might, was not usually used except for ground support—in the era of Aircraft carriers and naval air battles, the artillery gun was nearly obsolete.

Fleming, though, smiled. Cruisers and Destroyers had always played second fiddle, escorts to the Aircraft Carriers that had dominated the naval scene. With the air forces of both sides heavily mauled, this would be the _Kieran T. King_—and its captains—time to shine.

"Yes, the Mark 45. Men, we're doing this the old-fashioned way."

* * *

><p>"All crew, prepare for emergency landing! Deploy emergency barricades!"<p>

The deck of the Chinese Federation carrier _Weiyuan_, was a hive of desperate, frenzied activity.

Across the 500-foot runway, flight crew were deploying what looked like glorified volleyball nets.

Normally, a carrier-based fighter would land by hooking itself on an arresting wire, a steel wire that allowed a high-velocity fighter to land safely in that short distance.

However, the bursts of flak and the trails of anti-air missiles above the carrier made clear that the Chinese and Japanese fighters would have more to focus on than their landing, a task that required perfect orientation and focus even in peacetime.

As such, the crew had deployed these crash barricades to allow for a somewhat bumpier but easier landing.

"Attention, crew, plane inbound!"

Trailing a little smoke, a Chengdu J-20 was streaking towards the landing. Under the guidance of the Landing Signals Officers on the _Weiyuan,_ the J-20 methodically adjusted its heading to orient itself with the runway.

Fortunately, the damage to the engines seemed negligible, and ground crew stood by with fire-extinguishing equipment to douse any fires that could break out.

Lifting its nose, the J-20 began its descent—and then shuddered with all the pain of a wounded animal as, with bursts of smoke, traces stitched a pattern across the damaged jet's exterior. As its assailant streaked past, a mere several meters above the shocked flight crew, the stricken Chengdu accelerated, its nose impacting into the deck with a scream of twisted metal—and then a blast of flames.

* * *

><p>"<em>Weiyuan <em>cannot process anymore emergency landings due to flight deck damage."

"Reroute those planes to _Qiangyong_," Admiral Cai Yuanhai ordered feverishly as, next to him, Adjutant Singh attempted to maintain communications with three Captains and damage control.

_To think that the Britannians had this kind of technology…_

Nothing from the Intelligence provided by the Japanese or the EU suggested that they knew anything about technology that could swat aircraft and guided missiles out of the sky.

With this technology, the Britannians had completely invalidated the numerical air superiority that China had carefully and painstakingly cultivated for decades.

What was left of the Chinese and Japanese aircraft were now circling the Chinese carriers while simultaneously beating a fighting retreat against the F-22s that had pursued them into the Chinese-Japanese fleet.

Yuanhai glanced at the radar screen, currently listing every ship of the joint fleet, some already registering damage reports thanks to the Britannian fighters that swooped down among them.

"Admiral!"

Yuanhai turned as Adjutant Singh saluted, as unshaeably calm as he always was. "Admiral Iwakura is on the line."

Yuanhai almost groaned out loud. He wasn't in the mood for politics, not in the middle of a combat situation.

"Put him on."

As soon as the screen showing a feverish-looking Admiral Iwakura opened up, Yuanhai sighed.

"Admiral?"

Iwakura seemed to be afraid of the question he was about to ask.

"Admiral Cai, have we failed?"

Yuanhai nodded. "Afraid so. The Britannians have some weapon that incapacitates fighters and missiles. Most of our air force, including the strike force, is destroyed, and the remainder would be going against a fleet that can disable them with nothing more than cannon. Our air force has been completely negated."

"…" It seemed as if Iwakura could think of nothing to say—Yuanhai could empathize—he could see that behind Iwakura, the bridge of his ship, the destroyer _Tanegashima_, was also in a state of barely-controlled chaos.

"Admiral, I believe that it is in our interests to retreat. The Guangdong fleet is currently docked in Kaohsiung in Taiwan. We've lost our greatest asset, our air force. We risk losing the rest of the fleet if we keep on fighting here."

Far from looking more panicked, Iwakura looked emotionless.. "What would you have us do?"

"Order all planes to return to our carriers and slowly retreat to Taiwan. The enemy will not pursue us far." _Because their main target is Japan_, Yuanhai left unsaid. Iwakura knew anyway.

Admiral Iwakura seemed more stonefaced than ever.

"Admiral Iwakura," Yuanhai pressed, "We can lose here, but if we do not retreat and take this lose, we won't have another chance to lose again."

"…alright. Acknowledged."

Saying nothing else, Iwakura's screen blacked out. Yuanhai turned back to Singh. "Get the birds on the carriers, if possible. Order the Carriers to start retreating towards Kaohsiung. _Laiyuan_, _Yangwei_ and _Wuwei_ will provide anti-air cover if necessary. Order _Weiyuan_ to prioritize in moving to safety—"

Suddenly, the sound of twisting metal caused most of the bridge to jump. Holding onto his chair, Yuanhai gazed outside—through a blast of foam from a shell splash, he could see the destroyer _Henghai _listing to its side—through a scorched gap in the armor, he could see the tiny shapes of individual seamen picking themselves up.

The groan of twisting metal sounded like the bellow of a wounded animal.

"_Henghai_ reports heavy damage from cannon!"

"Cannon?" That meant that the Britannian navy was already within missile range.

"Report! Visual contact with Britannian Cruisers and Destroyers!"

Yuanhai leaned back on his seat. _So that was why they brought so many battlewagons._

Expecting to rely on its air power, the Beiyang fleet's massive carrier force (augmented by two carriers from the Fujian and Guangdong fleets) was supported primarily by Escort Destroyers built primarily to fight submarines, air-defense frigates and several light destroyers meant to provide ground support.

Now without its air power, the Beiyang fleet was fighting against enemy combat destroyers and heavily-armored cruisers with ships that were meant, at best, to stand as meat shields for the Carriers.

Yuanhai turned to Singh. "Authorize all surface combat ships to return fire. We may as well try to put up a fight."

"All Destroyers and Frigates, return fire at will," Singh called with a nod to his superior.

"Tcheh," Yuanhai spat with a wry grin. _At this rate, I won't even have to worry about the Eunuchs coming after my hide._

* * *

><p>"Main cannon, firing!"<p>

With a suppressed whump that shook all the occupants of the bridge, the _Kirishima_'s 127mm gun roared out defiance to its Britannian counterparts. Across them, the Japanese Navy's flagship, the destroyer J.D.S. _Tanegashima_, also launched its complement of Type-90 anti-ship missiles.

Hasekura Yukio's knuckles seemed nearly translucent where they hung onto his chair as a splash of water across the _Kirishima's_ bow sent foam across the bow.

"Return fire at will! Prepare to launch our Type-90s!"

Next to him, JSDF Major General Katase Tatewaki never felt more powerless. As a logistics officer, he did not, by any means, belong on the front lines. As an army officer foisted on a navy ship, he felt doubly useless—and powerless—as the _Kirishima_ engaged Britannia.

The mood on the ship was grim. With the air force decimated, the rest of the fleet was essentially fighting handicapped, like a swordsman left with only his sheath after losing his sword. This was a life and death battle.

Executive Officer Miura turned back to Hasekura. "Captain, shouldn't we fall back with the rest of the fleet? Our armor can barely survive cannon, nevermind an anti-ship missile."

"No," Hasekura said simply. Katase looked at him—though he seemed to be afraid, the way with which he held onto his chair, almost like a claw, suggested that he was still propping himself up.

"The Hasekura do not run away!"

With a near-audible whine, a shell shot past the _Kirishima_, exploding somewhere behind the ship. The impact shook the bridge, and some of the bridge officers seemed less than inspired by Captain Hasekura's resolve.

Katase glanced at Hasekura. It seemed that he had not forgotten his family's retreat from Osaka[9] to the forces of Tokugawa Ieyasu.

Still, Katase thought to himself, he wasn't prepared to atone for some long-past situation...

"Sir, new orders from Admiral Iwakura."

* * *

><p>"<em>Tanegashima<em>, advancing. _Ashigara_, Advancing. _Mirai _and_ Kazenami, _Advancing."

The radar officer looked as if he didn't believe what he was seeing.

Admiral Yuanhai was having trouble believing it too.

Given, the Japanese fleets were, legally, outside of the control of the Chinese navy—but that they would so blatantly (and suicidally) engage the Britannian fleet—

"Bring up Admiral Iwakura," he ordered Adjutant Singh.

The bridge of the _Tanegashima_ looked even more frenzied than even that of the _Zhenyuan_—and maybe it was the lighting, but it seemed as if Admiral Iwakura's hair looked several shades grayer.

"Admiral Iwakura, explain yourself," Yuanhai demanded.

Iwakura smiled—not the nervous smile he had usually shown to Yuanhai, but a grim one, the face of somebody on the chopping block. "We have elected to delay the Britannians as long as possible."

"Denied," Yuanhai barked. As an Imperial Admiral, Yuanhai was equivalent to a full admiral, a rank above Rear Admiral Iwakura.

"Isn't there a proverb that 'The order of the King need not be followed by the General?' (author's note: I couldn't find the exact wording, but that's the gist of it)"

Yuanhai nodded. There was.

"But there is also the saying that, of all the thirty-six stratagems, retreat is the greatest."

"Our fleets need time to escape and regroup. We can buy time for the rest of the fleet, especially our carriers."

Yuanhai acknowledged the point grudgingly. Among others, _Weiyuan_ had taken a torpedo in its hull and a destroyed Chengdu on its landing deck—it would not be able to retreat adequately at this rate.

"That may be, Admiral, but do not forget that the Japanese Navy's current carriers, the _Weiyuan _and _Yangyong_, are on loan from us?"

"Rest assured, Admiral Cai, I have ordered the _Yangyong_ to retreat with your carriers, and I have given leave for all who wish to retreat to do so. You'll find, though, that few of us value our lives more than our nation."

Yuanhai regarded the radar. Indeed, few of the Japanese warships had followed the _Yangyong _and the Chinese-commanded _Weiyuan_.

Yuanhai glared across the screen at his Japanese counterpart. "…Is there nothing I can do to alter your decision, or that of your men?"

Admiral Iwakura simply shook his head.

For a moment, the two Admirals simply stared at each other. Finally, Yuanhai raised his hand to his forehead, palm facing his elbows in a naval salute.

"…Well, I suppose I respect you a little more, Admiral Iwakura, even if I think less of your intellect. In any case, I wish you good hunting."

"…I wish you good luck as well, Admiral Cai."

"…Keep your luck, Admiral. You'll need it more than I do." With that, Yuanhai terminated the conversation. Sitting back onto his command seat, he rubbed his forehead with his palms. "Adjutant Singh, set course for Kaohsiung."

"Yes, sir. And what of the Japanese?"

"Let them be. They have a government that they are proud to defend." Yuanhai sighed. The Eunuchs would likely have his hide for this failure. "If only we could say the same."

* * *

><p>"To all Captains and Crew of the Japanese Maritime Self Defense Force, this is Rear Admiral Masao Iwakura. I hereby release all ships of the Punitive Defense Fleet from my command. If you choose, you may withdraw with the Chinese Forces, the <em>Yangyong<em> and the _Weiyuan_. I and the Tanegashima, though, will fight to the end for our country. That is all."

With that, Admiral Iwakura's face disappeared from the bank of faces that appeared on the communications screen. Like a partially-damaged LCD, some of the banks were simply blacked out—a modest memorial for the ships that had already been sunk in the battle.

On the rest of the banks were the remaining Captains of the Ships of the Japanese Punitive Defense Fleet.

From the bridge of the _Kirishima_, Katase Tatewaki looked silently at the face of Yukio Hasekura. As an Army Officer, he had no place in the deliberations. Instead, he looked at the Captains of each ship. Some of them showed grim resolve, but others seemed less sure.

"Well," Captain Umezu of the _Mirai_ asked, "what will we do?"

"I will stay with the Admiral," Executive Officer Shimezu of the _Mashima_ said calmly, even as several seamen were administering CPR to Captain Hansode. "To die for a noble cause is an honor."

"Me, as well," Captain Mikasa of the _Kazenami_ replied. "Nobody will say the Japanese Navy fled before the Britannians."

"As members of the military," Captain Hasekura said to the bank of faces, "We should be prepared to die for our country."

On the screen, many of the captains nodded. Others, such as the _Mirai_'s Captain Umezu, looked unsure.

"Is this really the way?"

Katase Tatewaki shared the same concern. _Are we really doing a service to our country dying like this?_

Against a largely-intact air force and a large core of dedicated cruisers and destroyers, the anti-sub and coastal defense destroyers of the Japanese Navy would be deprived of even their Chinese allies. It was a suicide mission, like that of the _Yamato._

Tatewaki had heard about the battles of the Pacific War—the hordes of Japanese that charged Britannian positions with Katana, convinced that their warrior spirit would grant them the miracle that would let them shrug off bullets and cut holes in Tanks in the policy known as _Ichioku gyokusai_.

A noble but completely useless charge.

That was what the Navy was doing.

Throwing their lives worthlessly for the sake of Honor.

"Captain Umezu, as warriors for Japan, we have a duty to fight—and if we fail, to die with honor."

"…I don't think that's right," Captain Miyazaki of the _Ashigara_. "The concept of Bushido is that suicide should come when capture is otherwise inevitable. If we retreat now, we may escape capture and be able to find a second chance at victory."

"If you fear death, Captain Miyazaki" Captain Mikasa of the _Onami _replied, "you may retreat with the Chinese and their forces."

"I do not fear death, I merely fear the results for Japan once we have thrown away our lives needlessly."

"Captain Miyazaki," Captain Hasekura spat angrily, "I would rather you not sortie with us. The Japanese Navy has no place for Cowards."

"Then resign," a familiar-sounding voice said. It took a moment for Katase to recognize it as his own's. Hasekura and the bridge crew turned around in shock. Their deadweight from the Army had said nearly nothing this whole time.

In the silence, despite his common sense's remonstrations, Katase continued. "The Coward is the one who chooses certain defeat when it is not inevitable. You men, who would rather take an assured defeat rather than gamble honor on victory, are the ones taking the coward's way out."

"Major-General, stand down," Hasekura snapped, but Katase continued. Now that he had gone this far, he may as well.

"All the generals in the Army have learned this lesson already—it seems the Navy hasn't. Taking responsibility for failure with suicide is running away—no different from running away from your responsibly. To avoid death, so as to bury your failure with your successes—that is honor, not to flee responsibility for your failure through death."

"…Major-General Katase, this isn't your area of jurisdiction," Hasekufa finally managed. "Executive Officer Roromiya, please escort the Major General off the bridge—"

"Captain, Army or not, the Major-General has a point," Captain Umezu cut in. "We do far more for our country fleeing now than to die here for no cause."

"…Perhaps the Army General is right," Captain Mikasa managed while barking orders to her men. "there are more occasions with which we can obtain victor—" suddenly, Captain Mikasa's screen shook and abruptly shorted out.

"_Kazenami_ hit by enemy missile, listing," the Damage officer reported.

"…Then you may flee," Hasekura replied drily, "but the _Kirishima_ is my ship, and I intend to die at its helm. XO Roromiya?"

Executive Officer Roromiya, though, simply stood there. "Captain, I agree with the Major-General. This is not the occasion to throw our lives away."

Katase looked around the bridge with Hasekura. He was surprised to see much of the bridge crew agreeing.

Hasekura looked around the bridge.

"Engine officer, please adjust heading towards the enemy fleet!"

"…"

Hasekura looked back and forth, his face a mix of confusion and anger. "…This is a mutiny!"

"…Perhaps it's a mutiny," Executive Officer replied as she glanced at the other bridge crew, "but we're not prepared to die simply for something as abstract as your honor, Captain."

For a moment, the Captain and his Executive Officer glared at each other—and then Captain Hasekura looked down.

"Do as you will…cowards."

"Thank you…Captain," Roromiya replied as she turned to the screen.

"It is as we say, Captains. The _Kirishima_ will withdraw with the Chinese fleet."

"As will the _Mirai,_" Captain Umezu echoed.

"_Ashigara_ will withdraw."

"_Onami_, retreating."

"…_Hyuga_, withdrawing."

Executive officer Roromiya turned to Katase as the other generals affirmed their decisions, most in favor of withdrawing. "Sir, have you considered a command?"

"No, ma'am," Katase said awkwardly—he had no idea how to refer to an executive officer, "served in logistics all my career."

"Well, Major-General, you might not be bad at it."

* * *

><p>"Main gun, firing!"<p>

"Torpedo, away."

"_Weiyuan_, listing hard to port!"

"We're taking in water—"

Admiral Masao Iwakura stood calmly, an eye in the middle of the storm on board the deck of the _Tanegashima._ All around the ship, sprays of explosions and the debris of intercepted missiles rained as the _Tanegashima_ engaged in its last charge. Behind it, the light destroyers _Sawagiri_ and _Sendai_ followed bravely in a last, hopeless charge. Thanks to this last attack, the Chinese fleet and the rest of the Japanese fleet was desperately making good their escape. Already, a Chinese carrier, the _Yongqiang_, had been sunk, and the _Weiyuan_ would likely need to be scuttled. Without much air cover and a lot of damage, the Chinese would still have a long voyage back to Taiwan.

"_Sawagiri_, sunk!"

Behind them, the Sawagiri, stricken in the bow, keeled over as its sailors leapt out in a last attempt at self-preservation.

As if hit by an invisible fist, Iwakura suddenly was knocked to the ground, a shrill ringing in his ears that for a few seconds prevented him from hearing Captain Hakurei, the captain of the _Tanegashima_.

"—ret—own!"

"What?"

Iwakura struggled to pick himself up.

" –ret i down"

"What—"

"Primary Turret is down!"

Abruptly, the sounds of battle finally managed to overcome the ringing that had attempted to put them down.

"We only have a few torpedoes left, and we're out of Type-92s!"

"…Full steam ahead," Admiral Iwakura murmured.

Hakurei stared at Iwakura. "Full steam?" With no more Type-92s and the CIWS nearly exhausted, the _Tanegashima_ had already ran out of most of its defensive and offensive options.

"…Full steam ahead," Iwakura confirmed. "We'll ram them."

"…Yessir," Hakurai confirmed. Iwakura, meanwhile, turned to his aide.

"Asakura, put me on Radio."

"Yes, sir." Keying into one of the flickering displays, Asakura nodded to Iwakura. "Sir, you are now broadcasting to everyone on board the ship and all other ships on the Joint Task Force system."

"Thank you, Asakura." Standing up unsteadily, Iwakura spoke into the radio.

"Crew of the _Tanegashima_ and the Captains of Joint Fleet Group 1, this is Rear Admiral Masao Iwakura. Firstly, I apologize for whatever role I have played in our defeat today. I have failed all you men, and I am deeply ashamed of it."

There was a moment of silence on the bridge, even as the sounds of battle echoed.

"Secondly, I would like the members of the Joint Fleet to bear witness—that at no point have the Japanese run without a fight. The _Tanegashima_ has lost all weapons. I intend to go down with my ship. May god preserve Japan."

With that, Iwakura cut the connection. It wasn't the most eloquent speech, but it was the best you could get in a state of shell-shock.

"Captain Hakurei, where—"

And then he was on his back, an insistent ringing in his ears. The evening sun seemed needlessly bright. The world seemed to be rolling about, the lights flickering from blindlngly bright to way too dark.

_What happened?_

Around him, shadowy, blurry figures ran back and forth.

As the ringing slowly wore away, he could hear sounds—shouts. And screams. And moans.

Iwakura tried to prop himself up—and then, just as abruptly, fell backwards, his head impacting the meta on the ground with a loud thunk.

"Admiral!" The voice filtered through strangely, like a corrupt audio file on a media player.

The lights seemed to be intensifying—just as a dark shadow blocked out the light. Blinking, Masao Iwakura just managed to recognize the face of Captain Hakurei, a gash leaving a line of blood across his face.

"Admiral, can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Don't worry, Admiral, I'll stem the bleeding, just stay still."

_Oh…that's what happened._ Iwakura accepted it without interest. That would explain why e couldn't get up.

"Captain Hakurei."

"Yes?"

The last thing Masao Iwakura managed to say before he was absorbed by the light was "Full steam ahead."

* * *

><p>Weaponless and crumbling, the <em>Tanegashima<em> charged into the wall of torpedoes, missiles and cannonfire.

Behind it, the _Sendai_ had already sunk.

Shivering from the missiles and explosions that struck the water around it, the destroyer shuddered from a second cannon strike, and then a third, before a missile launched from an F-22 struck the _Tanegashima_ in the back. The final blow was too much for the small warship, and it keeled over, cracking into two before sinking in a pool of black oil.

* * *

><p>"Hawkeye 1, landing…" With a jerk, the F-22's landing hook connected with the arresting wire on the deck of the <em>Polaris<em>. Within a second, several hundred miles per hour's worth of velocity was reduced to nothing. As ground crew sprayed down a few loose fires on the F-22, Hawkeye 1, otherwise known as Captain Adrian Soresi, leapt out spryly, to the weary cheers of the ground crew. Around them, the smoke and listing ships showed the price the Britannian fleet had paid for their victory.

A fairly large portion of the F-22s had been destroyed, as had several cruisers and destroyers. In between the damaged ships, small launches moved through the water, picking up survivors and prisoners.

The Chinese and Japanese, though, had paid quite dearly. Twenty assorted destroyers and frigates, along with the carriers _Weiyuan_ and _Yongqiang_, not including the nearly complete destruction of their aircraft complement.

Soresi looked at a group of Chinese pilots who glumly sat on the deck, watched by several Britannian marines.

"We really did them a number, didn't we?"

The Sakuradite Disturber—one of the many new toys that the Britannian R&D had come up with between this and the Annam war.

"I'm glad we got it before the Chinese or Japanese," Hawkeye 6 replied, cradling his bandaged arm.

Adrian nodded. The hardest part of the war was yet to come—the ground campaign.

"Let's hope those monstrosities we've got in the hangar are going to work just as well."

* * *

><p>It was a calm night on the water, though repairs continued throughout the night. On the deck of the Aircraft Carrier Excelsior, ground crews were doing their best to remove the wreckage of one F-22 that had failed to land and repair other damage to the flight deck.<p>

2nd Squadron Commander A troop leader Major Gilbert G.P. Guilford found he liked the feeling.

The Pacific Fleet felt like a city on the water.

"First Lieutenant Cornelia li Britannia, reporting for duty!"

When Guilford had first read the name of Cornelia li Britannia on the transfer roster a year ago, he had assumed he would have to deal with another pampered princess with entitlement issues, shooing herself in for something to pad her pedigree.

It turned out he was completely wrong.

Having served in the Army and then later the Imperial Guard as a guard commander at age 19, Cornelia li Britannia had easily shown that she deserved all the ranks she once occupied. As a knightmare pilot, she had easily caught up to the other cadets, putting a princess' efforts while expecting none of a princess's privileges.

As such, Guilford felt quite guilty as he turned around.

"First Lieutenant Cornelia, I am going to transfer you out of A troop over to Captain Enneagram's C troop."

Cornelia li Britannia looked shocked. With the exception of her long hair (a minor regulation infraction ignored by most of the Knightmare Corps), she was dressed impeccably, with not a single crease in her uniform. Unlike many of the pilots (who felt a sense of entitlement and enjoyed slouching), she stood straight as a ramrod, something that, Guilford conceded, was extra difficult with the extra weight she packed in her chest.

"Sir, have I committed some kind of infraction? If this is about my hair, I will willingly cut it immediately."

"No, Your Highne—Lieutenant. You have been a model soldier, and I would recommend you for a promotion at any moment."

It was true. Out of the members of his personal troop, Cornelia was easily the best, both in the charisma with which she could hold her allies together and her unbending willing to subordinate herself and others to duty and regulation.

"Sir, then why am I being withdrawn from the front lines? I have not shown any cowardly behavior, nor have I shown any lapse in discipline in my time with the Knightmare Corps"

Guilford sighed regretfully. "Your Highne—Lieutenant," he managed just in time. Since the first day, the second Princess of Britannia had demanded to be referred to by her military rank, as opposed to Princess. It was rather difficult. "Lieutenant…no, your Highness, I do not doubt your valor. But you are the Second Princess of Britannia. I do not wish to jeopardize your life with me, in the vanguard."

As the vanguard of the 2nd Squadron, Guilford and his A troop would be the first in a warzone, the first to die if something went wrong.

Cornelia looked scandalized. "As a member of the military, sir, I should not be treated differently from any other member of the military. There are many nobles who have careers in the military."

"—and their families bribe them into desk jobs or noncombat roles. You, your majesty, are the only member of nobility I know who has willingly abandoned your rank and prestige, even your personal Knight."

Cornelia sniffed. "I need no knight, no bodyguard."

Guilford sighed. "Your Highness, if you are to enter the combat zone at all, you will be a special target for the enemy. You represent the Imperial Crown, both to our allies and our enemies. I jeopardize the lives and morale of our whole corps in risking your capture or death. No matter what troop you are, you will require a bodyguard."

"Then, Sir, be my knight."

Guilford blinked. "…excuse me, your highness?"

"Yes, sir, you are right in that I am a Princess, a representative of the Emperor. But it is exactly because I am a representative to the Emperor that I must lead the Emperor's people into battle, that I never shirk from duty or battle.

Do not consign me to safety because of my rank—but rather, leave me in the vanguard because of my rank. I will lead our troops into battle, no matter what you say.

So be my knight and defend me.

If I am a standard for all of Britannia, be my standard bearer, and defend me with your life.

Are you prepared to do that?"

"Y-yes, your highness," Guilford replied quickly as he snapped to attention.

Watching Guilford's awkward salute, Cornelia blinked—and then smiled.

"…then am I dismissed…sir?"

"Oh…yes. Yes you are, Your Highne—Lieutena—"

Smiling, Cornelia stalked off, seemingly pleased with herself.

Gilbert G.P. Guilford sighed resignedly.

_That arrogant princess_…

It had been stunningly arrogant of her to suddenly demand that her superior be her subordinate—but, for a moment, her arrogance was sufficient to convince Guilford of his complete inferiority, enough that he had treated her as his superior.

It was that powerful brand of pride, when it showed itself, that made Guilford respect that arrogant princess.

Guilford smiled slightly as he watched the flight deck crew work around him.

_A princess demanding to be a common soldier, and then putting herself in the vanguard…why would anyone do that?_

* * *

><p>Lieutenant Cornelia li Britannia walked through the various living quarters of the troops.<p>

Snatches of conversation flowed past—card games; the battle to come; politics; theology. And then there was the room for C-troop.

"Alright, you fucks! We're going to land in Japan before Guilford's vanguard!"

Cornelia took a quick peak inside. As usual, Captain Nonette Enneagram was riling up her unit to do something that was clearly impossible as her unit tried to dissuade her."

"Ma'am, high command won't activate our weapons until we arrive in time—"

"Then we'll go without the weapons! We'll beat the enemy tanks with our fists!"

"Captain, that's impossible—"

Cornelia shivered slightly as she quickly walked across the hallway, trying to keep as out of sight as possible.

There was one more reason, save for her pride, that she declined a transfer into C troop.

Because Captain Nonette Enneagram was probably completely insane.

* * *

><p><strong>End-of-chapter notes and references (The longest yet)<strong>

* * *

><p>[1]<span>Germany and Russia picking up after Austria-hungary and Serbia<span>: World War One didn't start with Germany ,Russia, England, France or the United States, but with Austria-Hungary's Prince Franz Ferdinand getting assassinated by some Serbian Nationalist (Serbia is a Slavic state allied with Russia). Austria-Hungary won pretty early-on, but the fight between Austria-Hungary's ally Germany and Serbia's ally Russia escalated into what is now World War I. Given there seemed to have been trench warfare in one of C.C.'s flashback scenes, I would assume that the first world War would likely have still occurred.

[2]Life under the Deck – The vast majority of the thousands of Aircraft Carrier crewmen spend their whole voyage under the decks—only the pilots and flight crew get the view of the hangar, and even fewer of them get to see the flight deck.

[3] Water from a Dangerous Height – Above 100 ft, first impact from falling into water is no different from falling into a brick wall. If you find yourself in this situation, make yourself into a pencil, and then flail your limbs outwards and inwards once you're in the water. You might lose your legs, but it's a fuckload better than breaking the rest of you.

[4] Sino-Japanese War – a war preceding World War II that in part led to the chill in relations between the United States and Japan. After a series of provocations by the Japanese Kwantung army, Japanese forces attempted to induct China as part of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. Because much of china was still divided by Warlords, the Japanese faced at best minor resistance (especially from armies that still trained soldiers in the use of the _Dao_) until the Battle of Shanghai, where (in our history, of course), Republic of China President Chiang Kai-Shek's own German-trained national army faced them (Surprisingly, Nationalist China had very strong links with Nazi Germany until World War II, where the Nazis had to choose Japan over China and China chose the United States. Most of the Chinese regular army at the time wore German uniforms and used Chinese versions of German equipment). While Japan still won this battle quite handily, it was the first time many of the Japanese army had faced the deaths of quite so many of their own men (70,000 dead, though the Chinese lost over 4x that number), and the demoralization and rage associated likely contributed to the loss in discipline at Nanjing. This isn't actually a fanfiction about the sino-Japanese war, so I'll leave further reading up to the reader's discretion.

[5] Modern Dogfighting – the belief that planes were too fast for dogfighting was already popular in World War II, and until now, it still hasn't been proven true. Up into the Gulf War, dogfights have still been fought. It should be noted, though, that even supersonic fighters slow down for dogfights, within subsonic speeds.

[6] Modern Technology in Code Geass – I should have mentioned this much, much earlier, but as you can tell, I'm using existing vehicles and their names for Code Geass technology. Why? Because I'm a lazy fuck, and also because I just imagine Britannia to be an amalgam of Great Britain and the United States, and by mentioning their real-life equivalents and explicitly using them, I clear up the trouble of having to make up names for new vehicles while leaving the reader confused. Of course, Code Geass' technology bullshit makes some problems, like how everything seems so nice and environmental-friendly (no tailpipes on cars) when there's no nuclear energy to power vast ships like aircraft carriers. Sure, they might use Sakuradite, but if they had sakruadite drives for so long somebody should have come up with a knightmare frame a hell of a lot sooner, and Japan would have been the richest nation in the world a long, long time ago. Of course, its conceivable that Code Geass world ships are completely filled with wind turbines or solar panels, but in this case I'll just call them "generators" to be safe.

[7] Why not just Say EMP? – because I'm not sure EMP has been discovered yet. The biggest and most noticeable manmade form of an EMP came from nuclear explosions and tests, and we know for sure none of that happened in Code Geass until the end of season 1.

[8] Pursuit (ACM) – In dogfighting, when you're the chaser, there are three types of "pursuit" – Lag pursuit, where basically you're trying to approach and maintain range without risking collisions. In this situation, the nose of your fighter is pointing behind the tail of your opponent. Leading Pursuit is where your nose is pointed in front of your opponent's nose, and you're essentially leading your shots, shooting where the enemy will be. Pure pursuit is when you're literally right behind them and you're in a good position to shoot anything. It's rather difficult to maintain pure pursuit, but it provides many opportunities.

[9] Siege of Osaka – The end of the Sengoku (warring states) period of Feudal Japan (a period in which local _Daimyo_ warlords fought over Japan) was precipitated by three individuals: Oda Nobunaga, Toyotomi Hideyoshi and Tokugawa Ieyasu. Oda Nobunaga, a visionary who could also at times be cruel (he ordered the suicide of his ally and childhood friend Tokugawa Ieyasu's first son), united a large portion of Japan but was assassinated by a subordinate. One of his officers, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, came out at the top. A former infantryman, Hideyoshi did not aspire to the title of Shogun (the traditional ruler-prime minister of Japan's stunningly weak monarchy) and instead became the Imperial Regent. After his death (and an invasion of Korea that, while initially successful, was eventually completely crushed by the Korean navy and an ailing Ming Dynasty China—the war was one of the reasons that the Ming dynasty fell), a power struggle between his own regents ended with Tokugawa Ieyasu, already a powerful _Daimyo_ in his own right, restoring Hideyoshi's son Hideyori to the throne. However, at a later time, opposition to Tokugawa crystallized around Hideyori, and political forces eventually turned Hideyori against Tokugawa (there are, of course, many political factors involved. All three of the "great unifiers" of Japan showed interest in Europe and Christianity, but Tokugawa came to saw it as a threat—indeed, Saint Francis Xavier, one of the most successful and earliest missionaries to Japan, saw the Japanese merely as footsoldiers that could be useful cannon fodder against an Imperial China that was, at the time, far better armed and prepared than either Japan or Spain. The Christian community in Japan, 300,000 strong at the time, rallied around Hideyori, who seemed more open to Christianity.). Evnetually, Tokugawa besieged and ultimately forced the suicide of Hideyori in the Siege of Osaka, and the Tokugawa family took over the rule of Japan. The acts of these three unifiers is remembered in the saying that "Nobunaga pounds the national rice cake, Hideyoshi kneads it, and Ieyasu sits down and eats it." At Osaka, many of the Hideyori Samurai, who had lived through an era of peace thanks to Hideyoshi, cowered and fled at the destruction wrought by one of Tokugawa's cannons. In this story, it's essentially implied that the Hasekura family was one of them.

* * *

><p><strong><span>HeavyValor's Note on Sakuradite Disturbers and EMPs:<span>**

So, I originally chose to create the Sakuradite Disturber to replace/stand in for EMPs in the CGverse because of the nature of a "Philosopher's Stone"-esque superconductor, sakuradite. Superconductors already do really funny things to magnetics, which merits a wiki search if you want to know. Considering sakuradite in CG is such a vital component that disrupting its energy transference properties (superconductivity) through Gefjun disturbers (WHICH ARE DIFFERENT FROM SAKURADITE DISTURBERS) wrecks the complete functioning of all electronics that use sakuradite, it isn't too far-fetched to say that it could amplify (well, resonate and propagate a frequency) of an EM wave like an EMP. Erm, that might be confusing. Some steps:  
>First, sakuradite already amplifies energy transference by nature of being a superconductor in canon.<br>Second, it's quite volatile, and is implied to react in a radioactive fashion.  
>Third, it explodes upon hard contact with solid objects.<br>So, it has E&M amplifying properties, radioactive amplifying properties, and kinetic amplifying properties. Fairly ridiculous, but that's what canon presents. Let's continue.  
>Due to these properties, it can be assumed that it should be able to alter waves in some fashion. This includes radiation waves and E&amp;M waves (rad and E&amp;M can be said to be the same thing, given enough argument). By increasing the magnitude andor frequency of changing magnetic and electric fields, voltage surges and damaging currents are generated by a crapton. A crapton, FYI, is a technical term. This is, effectively, an EMP, but a crapton larger, and it can be extended for a duration of time (Ahem Yggdrasil drives, spinning, constant magnetic flux, should be doing bad things to electronics but hey art physics major crap).

In short, we needed an explanation for why nobody uses aircraft at all until freaking antigravity in R2. And making sure magic rocks did the job pretty much satisfied it. Then there's the magecraft aspect, but hey, you gotta wait for F/NA to update for that. Mwahahahaha.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Afterword<strong>

**Awkwardly, at the end of this, this chapter ended somewhat different from how I intended it to end. For the sheer reason that I am**

**too lazy to retcon anything, once I give a character a personality, I'm going to let it play out, and Yuanhai, who was meant to heroically**

**die in the sea battle, ended up surviving. Moreover, certain technical issues raised by HeavyValor while I was writing this did make the **

**Sakuradite Disturber's nature quite different from how I imagined it. This naval battle is, of course, COMPLETELY unrealistic. Any decent**

**captain would just ignore the guns and just fire missiles, and most battles (as in the case of World War II) were fought without either navy**

**being in range of the other. But battleship guns are cool, and cool things are cool. So I did make a rather unrealistic battle. This chapter**

**does top it off as the longest, though I didn't expect it to. At any rate, here are some of the reviews from last chapter, and I would like to **

**remind any new or old readers to leave a review if you can! I have to get over my Writer's Block for Chapter 1, and I plan to make a glossary**

**to make some of the technical terms (I'm sure the J-20, F-2 and F-22 business was a bit irritating for people here, I had to wikipedia a LOT)**

**more understandable as a separate chapter.**

**AngrySanto - Once again, thanks for your chapterly reviews, they're easily the one I look forwards to the most at every update. I did change the grammatical errors, but you do raise a bunch of issues, some of which are misunderstandings due to my part. For example, Guan Tziling was invoking Zelretch as part of the Ceremony, she has no idea who he is. On the topic of Volumen Hydragyrium, it did survive a whole building falling on top of it, so I feel as if, under Kayneth's guidance, it probably could have easily survived V.V.'s blowtorch. With the .30-06, it was more like the hydragyrium was expecting the bullet to be of the same power as Kiritsugu's submachine gun's lower caliber and power. I am glad it didn't seem TOO forced, though. In terms of Ryougi...well, I am being somewhat dishonest in my writing when I say that an Eighth Servant is summoned. I would say Ryougi in this case plays a role closer to Arcueid than that of a traditional servant. Either way, with finals done, I can release chapter 1 (it should be a relatively small chapter) as soon as my writer's block is over with, though going to Hong Kong for the summer might get in the way. At any rate, I hope you enjoyed the story thus far!**

**Atrile -  Thanks for both the review and well-wishes. Finals were a pain, but I did manage to scrape a 3.49 this semester, which was a hell of a lot better than the mess I did get in the first one. The road to Premed looks to be one of suffering ;_; on the other hand, I will take as much time as possible to work on this fic, and this break is a good opportunity for it. I hope you keep reading!  
><strong>

**Slayer End, Forever Signed in Blood - Oddly enough, the original plan was that Guan Tziling (though not Guan Tziling) would have played Shiki's current role, though certain situations and servant choices altered that. Shiki is, of course, not an "actual" "servant", in both senses of the word, but I'll explain that later. In the meantime, thanks for the well-wishes!  
><strong>


	13. Chapter 3: On Homunculi and Hubris

**-Author's Preface- **

**Firstly, my apologies. This chapter took a lot, lot longer than I imagined it would. Several things, though, storywise:**

**Firstly, there are some inconsistencies in naming that I hope you will bear with. The introduction of new information**

**via Akito the exiled brings some new information to the story, some of which actively overwrites old information (for**

**example, the inexplicable Euro Universe has been replaced with the European Union, which makes a hell of a lot more sense).**

**Having found that out, I have changed Universe to Union here, but I have yet to do this for older chapters, something I'll**

**deal with later. In other news, the spelling of Justizia/Justica/Justeaze Lizheli von Einzbern is always being changed**

**and realtered, and my personal belief that Justica or Justizia both sound a lot cooler than Justeaze (which sounds like**

**some kind of hip new fruit tea with all natural organic ingredients) leads me to use the term Justizia. Lastly,**

**I do tend to make up the history of Code Geass/Fate/Stay Night as a whole, as it was the alternate history aspect**

**that first got me into Code Geass. There is a high chance that information relevant to the EU may be overwritten in the course**

**of Akito the Exiled, and I do pray that the readers understand. Also, many thanks to HeavyValor, my essential co-writer, for helping**

**me out of a writer's block and contributing to this chapter. ****Either way, I've held you up enough, so here's Chapter 3 of Fate/Zero Eos! **

**Thanks, CaptainSparkles**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3 – On Hubris and Homunculi<strong>

* * *

><p>"<em>I pull these quotes off Google about<em>

_2 minutes before I upload each chapter._

_True Story_."

-Me

**Hans Guderian Air Force Base**

**Federal Republic of Germany**

**European Universal Union of Federated Nations (E.U.)**

Only the most disciplined of the European Union soldiers could prevent themselves from gawping at the Bugatti Royale that drove carelessly into the middle of the Tarmac.

Somewhat belatedly, the soldiers snapped to attention as a handsome, boyish young man came out from the front, soundlessly opening the back door.

Once again, it took a fair bit of discipline to prevent the soldiers from staring at the silver-haired beauty that exited soundlessly. With hair like silk and a face deserving of an actress, she was the most beautiful thing the soldiers had ever seen.

At the head of the group of soldiers, a moustached Algerian French Air Force officer in the EU Air Force's Blue Beret saluted. "Milady, did you enjoy your trip?"

Irisviel von Einzbern sighed with disappointment. "It could have been a more comfortable ride. Great-grandfather really needs to update the garage a little more. The cars that we pack these days are just too old."

Even the air force officer could barely keep his face straight. _As expected of a Lady of noble birth_. Only the Einzbern, one of the oldest former noble houses of Germany, could own a Bugatti Royale[1] and complain about it.

For lack of words, the officer decided to change the subject. "Milady, General Bodewig requests your presence before liftoff."

Irisviel nodded happily. "Ahh, Laura? We should catch up anyway. Lead on, Major.

"Erm, Captain."

"Captain."

* * *

><p>Inside the control center, EU soldiers of every nation milled about—French Maghreb Zouaves [2]; Italians in their colorful uniforms; Papal Italian "knights," dressed in white; Czech officers in blue, Irish in somber Black and several grim-looking Swedes in Ikea Colors.<p>

It was a testament to the politics of war.

Combined, the Swiss Sig Sauers beat the Britannian AR-24As in accuracy and range, while the Chinese used copies of Russian AK's; the German Panzer-Wulf boasted more armor, firepower and equivalent maneuverability against Britannian M-33's; France's Dunois Rafael could outfight the Chinese J-20 Chengdu. Divided, though, the EU military could not operate with either the sophistication of the Britannian forces or the unflinching discipline of the Chinese Federation.

Then again, it was to be expected. Any organization that attempted to unite sworn enemies such as France and Germany, Poland and Russia, the Irish Republic and England, the Papal States and Italy, and Turkey and itself was bound to be fractious.

Inspired by survivors of Washington's Rebellion such as Thomas Jefferson and Patrick Henry who feared the establishment of a powerful dictatorship, the European Universe operated on a strict policy of anti-federalism following the end of the Napoleonic Era. As such, the armies of the Euro Union are markedly different: the militaries of Germany, France, Russia and the Irish Republic (the four most powerful states in the EU's central committee) are armed with different weapons and dress in different uniforms, operating together only in cases of war (and only sporadically) and with only limited cohesion.

The soldier who led Irisviel through the crowds of officers, clerks and MPs had to excuse himself in several languages as he led her upstairs to a wooden door. He knocked.

"Come in."

Without a word, the soldier opened the door, ushering Irisviel and her silent bodyguard in.

The office, reserved for the general in command, was meant to be luxurious, with bookshelves for holding ornaments and medals and a desk handmade in Ottoman Turkey that would have made any Pasha proud.

Yet, the office of General Laura Bodewig still managed to look positively Spartan. There were no medals on the bookshelves—in fact, there were only a few books on the shelf, most of them binders whose spines bristled with vague identification codes.

On the desk were no reminders of home or military mementoes, but a half-assembled H&K MP5.

And, her back to Irisviel, was a silver-haired girl of a surprisingly diminutive height.

"Elder sister," Irisviel said respectfully with a small curtsey.

"…Irisviel," General Laura Bodewig said emotionlessly as she turned around.

The first thing that struck the soldier at the door was the resemblance between the two. Their silver hair aside, both of them had the same reddish eyes and beauty—a beauty that seemed almost inhuman.

The second was that Irisviel had referred to the general as her older sister. _A joke?_ General Bodewig, in fact, was a head shorter than her supposedly younger sibling—as far as age, she looked at least ten years Irisviel's junior.

Catching his confused expression, Laura nodded to the soldier. "Wait outside."

Saluting, the soldier left with a bemused expression on his face.

Laura glanced at the blonde boy next to Irisviel.

"Get him to leave."

The boy didn't budge.

"…My duty is to protect Lady Irisviel."

It was about as clear a denial as any Laura had heard. For a moment, she simply stared at the boy—

And then, in what Irisviel saw as simply a blur of movement, the two were at the center of the room, the boy's hand holding Laura's, which held a pen. They stared at each other—and then, a moment later, the boy released his hand.

"He does his job well," Laura said to Irisviel, twirling the pen and returning it to her desk.

Irisviel smiled. Any other person would not have noticed, but the way Laura's left hand clenched and unclenched was a sign of Laura's shock, something she had only shown seven years ago.

It wasn't often that somebody could intercept the fist of Germany's super-soldier.

"I assume that mercenary is well?"

"Kiritsugu is fine," Irisviel replied with a grin. Laura had never quite forgiven Kiritsugu for handing Laura her first defeat in single combat, something the homunculus had taken personally.

It was hard not to—as a homunculus bred by the Von Einzbern for the sole purpose of being the best at all things warfare-related, defeat was the same as admitting that Laura was a flawed product, the worst insult for homunculi such as Irisviel and Laura.

In a modern Germany that had long since abolished the nobility, the Von Einzbern held onto their privileges and wealth through their tacit support of the German Government.

Laura Bodewig was the Von Einzbern's gift to the German Military.

Modern Genetics and bioengineering, established in two centuries of research, was still miles away from the alchemy of the Von Einzbern, who had rewritten, reestablished and refined their art for over a millennia.

Nothing even all the greatest nonmagus world could devise would combine to create a supersoldier as specialized and skilled as an Einzbern Homunculus.

And so, for now, the Von Einzberns were honored guests of the German Government.

"Where is he?"

"He went ahead of us to Japan."

"…and you will accompany him?"

Irisviel smiled. "I am his wife, no?"

"I trust that you know about the war that will be coming to that country very, very shortly."

"Yes, I am aware of that."

Laura looked straight at Irisviel. Unlike Laura, whose muscles seemed to be in a constant state of tension, Irisviel's looked relaxed, almost vestigial.

"Irisviel, you have no place on the battlefield. That is where I belong."

Irisviel remained unmoved. "I have a place next to my husband, wherever that may be."

Her stubbornness only irritated Laura more. It was typical of her younger sister—unlike Laura, a normal (albeit stunningly well-made) homunculus, Irisviel was a more advanced type of Homunculus, built on the genetic and spiritual data of the Einzbern's last miracle, the Homunculus Justizia Lizleihi von Einzbern. As was the case for all of Justizia's clones, Irisviel had inherited traits of her ancestor's appearance and personality, namely her stubbornness.

"You only prove my point, younger sister. Love has no place on the battlefield either. You were not made for a warzone—you never were."

Irisviel continued smiling. "…We were not made to love. But we do."

"Maybe you do, younger sister. But that is a design flaw that I do not possess."

"Then why, fellow Homunculus, do you call me Sister?"

"…" Laura wanted to say it was just a convenient Euphemism—but somehow, she felt that wouldn't be completely honest.

"I am going to fulfill my purpose, Laura. You should be proud of me."

Laura sighed. Irisviel was, of course, right. A homunculus who fulfills its purpose has pride—it is fulfilling its reason to exist, and it is needed to do so. Yet Laura felt no pride in watching the only remaining homunculus she knew fulfill her purpose.

Yet, she could think of nothing else to keep her back. Instead, she turned back towards the window.

"This will be the last time we will speak, correct?"

"Yes, elder sister."

"The plane will lift off at 1400 hours. Good luck."

Laura heard her sister curtsey. "Goodbye, elder sister."

And with that, she was gone, just another of the Einzbern's many homunculus on a job.

With a quiet bow, the boy who had accompanied her bowed and turned to go.

"Butler."

The boy paused and turned around.

"Yes, milady?"

"Do your best to protect my sister."

"Of course."

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry you had to see that."<p>

"Not a problem, milady," Servant Saber replied with a smile as Irisviel settled into the chair of the EU VIP jet. The huge, cushy sofa easily absorbed irisviel as she sat down. "My brother and I often acted similarly."

Irisviel looked surprised. "Your brother…"

"Sir Kay. I was raised in his household until I was crowned king."

"Ahhh. I'm sorry, Saber, I don't know much about your legend…"

"Think nothing of it." Saber replied breezily. "She seemed quite skilled for this era. In my era, she could well have taken my place as king."

Irisviel laughed, a cheerful and yet sad laugh.

"She would be proud to hear that. Fulfilling its purpose is a Homunculus' greatest pride."

Saber said nothing, but in her mind, she saw the silver-haired boy who had asked for an audience with her on that night. The face that had been nearly aglow with pride and excitement.

"Homunculus have a strong sense of pride, don't they?" Saber asked tentatively.

Irisviel smiled and nodded, somewhat sadly.

"It's all we have, we who are made to work.

Humans are the products of chance. A human birth is the product of chance—sometimes unexpected and sometimes undesired.

But homunculi are different.

A homunculus is never born, only made.

We are never the products of chance.

We are always made, and for a reason.

And it's for that reason that we were given life, and it's for that reason we live. If we cannot fulfill our duty, then we have no reason to live."

Saber remembered the night that Camelot began to fall. On that night, she had been roused by Sir Mordred's urgent request for a private audience. In all her years as king, she had never heard the voice of the masked knight so excited. Dismissing her guards on the Red Knight's request, she had received Mordred in her bedroom, a dangerous action she had tolerated only due to Mordred's flawless record.

There, with barely concealed excitement, Mordred had removed the helmet he had never taken off in his many years as a knight of the round table without a second thought.

It was a face that she had never seen before, and yet had seen a thousand times—her own.

On that night, framed by locks of silver hair, that face had shone with a boyish delight, a pride that seemed to ignite the room with its warmth.

With joy the boy spoke eagerly of how he was a homunculus, born of the King's seed. How he was ready to stand behind his father in every battle, to face a thousand enemies in the name of the King his father. Sir Mordred vowed to carry on the legacy of his father the king, to bring even Rome and the Orient under his father's banner.

And then his father, the man he had idolized much of his life, had rejected him.

To this day, Saber wondered why she had done that.

Maybe it was because the affair smelled of Morgan Le Fay, whom her mentor, Merlin, had never quite trusted.

Maybe it was the ambition that burned in his eyes, the ambition not of a defender but a conqueror, the eyes of many a man she had slain in battle, eager to take new lands, new spoils, new wives.

Or maybe it was because he looked just as she had on the day she had drawn the sword from the stone.

Given, Sir Mordred had gone through far more than Squire Arthur—Mordred had killed a man, led an army, and performed an execution, all things that Saber had never done before drawing the sword. And yet, his excited enthusiasm was no different from the silent determination that Saber had the day she had drawn that sword, the confidence of a peasant soldier who dreams of glory on the cusp of his first battle.

And, like the girl at the stone, he would find that the world outside the keep is no fairy tale. He would feel the pain of riding through a burning village he could not have saved; he would have to execute the deserter whose five children waited eagerly for his return; he would have to plan assassinations, arrange unwanted marriages, and send men to a certain death on the battlefield.

He would come to hate the throne as she had; he would curse the crown by night and wear it proudly by day.

And he would curse the day he had ever become a king.

Perhaps that was why she had so firmly rejected the boy who truly would have died for her sake.

So that Arthur Pendragon would be the only king to bear this cross.

Or perhaps this, too, was the conceit of a king who tried—and failed—to carry the burden of her country.

In that one moment of pride and conceit, she had rejected Sir Mordred's raison d'etre, dashing his hope upon the rocks. In that one moment of panic, she had swept away all he lived for, and he never forgave her for it.

The next time she saw the face under the mask would be at Camlann, on the end of her spear.

Perhaps, if I had acted a little differently, Camelot would not have fallen.

One of a thousand times she could have stepped away from the road to Camlann.

One of a thousand ways she had failed as a king.

"Saber?"

Saber blinked as she suddenly became aware of Irisviel's face, only several inches from her own.

"Saber, are you alright?" Irisviel said, her red eyes clouded with concern as she put a hand on Saber's forehead.

"Y-yes, of course, milady," Saber blustered as she recoiled. "I just dozed off for a moment."

"Ah, I see," Irisviel replied happily. "Well, the plane is about to lift off. You should sit down as well."

"Of course, milady," Saber replied as she sat down and picked up the two ends of the seatbelt.

It was pointless to commiserate on her failures now.

_It's my duty to win the Holy Grail and make up for those failures as king_, Saber thought to herself as she began tying the two ends of the safety belt into an intricate knot.

"Um, Saber?" Irisviel's unusually hesitant voice once again brought Saber back to the present, and she turned around, ready to don her armor at a moment's notice.

"Milady, is something wrong?"

Irisviel smiled, a little awkwardly as she looked at Saber's knotted safety belt.

"You don't know how a seatbelt works, do you?"

Several thousand miles over Czechoslovakia, Irisviel hummed happily as she fiddled with Saber's tightly-bound hair.

Her good cheer was not shared by the other passengers on board.

Japanese ambassadors returning home, EU military advisors, mercenaries with weapons clearly shown, Diplomats—each of them sat silently, ignoring the amenities that the first-class Von Einzbern-rented jet offered.

There was a certain note of solemnity onboard the European Universe Jet. It was, servant Saber, King Arturia of Britannia recognized, the mood of an army on the road to the battlefield.

Right outside, a Dunois Rafale fighter flew alongside the fighter, its side emblazoned with the French Air Force's Rondel, a constant reminder of the nature of the flight.

With the Chinese and Japanese fleets smashed in the coral sea, Japan was hunkering down for war. Japanese Aviation had already closed down all commercial flights. This flight would be the very last plane to enter and leave Japan, and had only been able to do so with a cautious donation to the Government of Japan by the Von Einzbern family.

Each of the passengers on board held the tacit understanding that, for better or for worse, they would not be able to leave until the end of the war.

This was, in other words, their HIGHWAYYYYYY TO THE DANGER ZONE jump into the breach.

All this was lost to Irisviel as she happily plopped herself in her seat with all the solemnity of a kindergartener on a field trip.

"Airplanes are pleasant things, aren't they?" Irisviel beamed as the flight attendant deposited a cup of coffee onto Irisviel's cup holder with a short bow.

Saber nodded with a wry smile. "In my day, travelling twenty miles without a robbery attempt was considered a successful trip. To imagine that now we can travel from Camelot to Rome or the Holy Land in a single night…"

"Even two and a half centuries ago, nobody imagined that people would be able to fly like the birds," Irisviel remarked with a faraway look[3].

"You lived that long…?"

Irisviel smiled. "It's not my memory. As a homunculus based on my 'ancestor', Justizia Lizleihi von Einzbern, I remember shreds of the things she saw, smelled, heard, remembered."

Saber frowned. "Shreds?"

"Only shreds. Sometimes a whisper, sometimes a burst of emotion, sometimes an unbidden thought. But it's rarely clear or reliable. It's an incomplete system. "

Irisviel turned to look outside of the window. "In that respect, Laura is a better Homunculus than I."

"That girl is different from you?"

Irisviel laughed. "'That girl' is five years my senior, you know. But yes, Laura is a normal homunculus, if the term homunculus could ever be attached to the term 'normal.'

My ancestor Justizia von Einzbern was a normal homunculus that, by chance, was given power and ability far beyond the norm, a perfect homunculus.

Laura was designed from a thousand years of accumulated knowledge and refinement. She, too, is 'perfect' as a homunculus, but a different kind of 'perfect' as my ancestor.

If Justizia was a perfect violin made accidentally by a novice luthier, Laura is a Stradivarius, a perfect violin made through decades of refinement. She is extraordinary in her own right, but she will never be more than that.

It is almost impossible to reproduce a violin that became perfect by pure coincidence, but with enough knowledge it's possible to create a thousand violins of Stradivarius quality[4]. In that respect, as a flawed imitation of a perfect aberration, I am a lot more flawed than Laura, a perfect model built from a nearly-perfect blueprint."

Saber mulled over those words.

To be honest, the king could not relate, not entirely. Barring the violin parallels, the girl called Arturia was similarly imperfect, hammered and cast into the mold called "king." Saber could understand the aspects of "perfect blueprint." Her obstacle was the concept of "perfect aberration." The mold of king only fit the perfect blueprint.

She recognized that there was a bias present in her consideration of the idea. To build a perfect king would invalidate her wish. That, however, was only a portion of the problem.

The sole difference between Irisviel and Arturia was that Arturia was never intended to be cast in the furnace for rule in the first place. She was born as a human, and that would never change. The boundary of humanity, ironically, barred Saber's understanding of the purpose of a "perfect aberration."

Humans are born. A human being made is, at its core, a concept that refuses to be recognized by the nature of humans. Saber understood training, changing, denying herself to become himself. She could even understand the grooming compressed into birth for a false human. But she could not understand the purpose, the idea of replication based on a flaw. Humans were flawed, but to attempt to reproduce those useful flaws is recognized as "foolish," "idiotic," "impossible." Humans are unique. To invalidate that is to maneuver against the force of human nature.

She denied her humanity, but it was her innate quality as human that prevented her understanding.

But, she supposed, that was the point. She was a human then, a Heroic Spirit now. Irisviel is a homunculus. That was all.

And yet something struck Saber as odd.

"Milady."

"Yes, Saber?"

"You said all Homunculi aren't born, but made for a purpose, correct?"

Irisviel nodded.

"Then what about your daughter?"

Irisviel's smile froze.

Several times, she opened her mouth to say something before closing it, swallowing some half-formed sentence as Saber realized that she had perhaps said too much.

"Milady, I have overstepped my bounds—"

"It's fine," Irisviel finally managed with a fragile-looking smile. With a deep breath, she leaned against the plane window, her eyes fixated somewhere in the blue sky around her.

"Ilya…Ilya is a blessing that I never deserved," Irisviel said quietly.

"Homunculus have always been coined, born in the magic circle and in the Alchemist's lab. But Ilya…Ilya is my daughter, born of my flesh and blood. She likes flowers and snow and pretty dresses and animals and riding on her father's back. When she grows up, she wants to be taller than Kiritsugu so that she can give him rides on her back" Irisviel continued, her voice glowing with pride. Even Saber smiled as she remembered the little white-haired girl she had seen from the window.

"She never will." The bitterness with which Irisviel almost spat out those words took Saber by surprise.

"Ilya's growth will halt long before she develops secondary sex characteristics," Irisviel said with a bitter smile, seemingly rummaging through her handbag distractedly.

"Ilya was born, perhaps, but she, too, is a Von Einzbern Homunculus, with all the modifications necessary. You see, Ilyasviel is Great-grandfather's insurance. If Kiritsugu and I do not obtain the holy grail, then Ilya will have to take my place in the next war."

Saber could say nothing. It was a common occurrence in her day—in order to ensure the loyalty of one's vassals, it was not unusual for a Lord to take in a vassal's child as a political hostage under the pretext of training him to be a knight. After all, Arturia Pendragon had been raised in the house of Sir Ector as his son Sir Kay's squire.

Yet even the King who had watched thousands of her own people die could not stop herself from looking away.

And then Irisviel withdrew a velvet-covered box held close with a silver latch, smiling a smile that betrayed no mirth.

"And that is why Kiritsugu and I will fight." For a moment, Irisviel stared at the latch, as if mulling over a decision. And then, with a deep breath, she snapped the latch open.

"Kiritsugu would have thrown a fit if he knew I had this," Irisviel said with a mix of embarrassment and pride.

Inside, seated in a mold of velvet, was a silver-plated handgun. If Kiritsugu had been there, he would have identified it as a Heckler & Koch USP, a law-enforcement handgun with a unexceptional but reliable design and low recoil.

With delicate hands that had probably never even held a kitchen knife, Irisviel lifted the handgun. Despite its pleasant silver plating, it still looked, felt outlandish in her hand. A homunculus holding a modern handgun—it seemed unnatural. Nevermind Kiritsugu—Great-grandfather Acht would have thrown a fit.

"I begged Kiritsugu to teach me how to use a handgun before we left, but he wouldn't let me. He said that I wasn't suited for his way of life."

Saber blinked. That was a side she had not noticed in the master who had completely ignored her.

"He and Laura are right, of course," Irisviel remarked as she clumsily inserted a few packaged bullets into the detached magazine. "I'm not made for war."

Anyone who noticed Saber and Irisviel would have found it stunningly obvious. Irisviel von Einzbern had clearly never handled a gun before.

"That seemed rather unlike Kiritsugu," Saber said bluntly. "He did not seem to be a man given to emotions…from what I saw of him."

On that first night when Saber had been summoned, Kiritsugu had met eyes with Saber. At that time, Saber had seen a pair of opaque eyes—a pair of selfish eyes that saw everything but expected to give nothing away, the evaluating eyes of a soldier eying his new sword and figuring how it would be used.

Behind those eyes, Saber almost caught a glimpse of something—but that had sunk under the surface in an instant, to be replaced by rejection.

Without a second glance he had walked off, ignoring Saber and Irisviel's protests.

Since that time, Kiritsugu had barely even looked at Saber, nevermind engage her in conversation.

Irisviel, though, smiled kindly. "Ah, you believe that Kiritsugu ignored you because he judged you unworthy."

Saber nodded. "I understand that I was expected to be a man. But I have the strength of any man, and have led my kingdom as any man. Was I that unworthy, that I did not merit words?"

Irisviel smiled. "He was probably more angry at the people of your time forced a young girl such as you into such a position."

"I chose this role," Saber protested. "He has no right to blame my people. At any rate, I wish he had at least deigned to speak to me in his anger instead of leaving me in silence."

Still smiling, Irisviel glanced out the window once more. "I used to believe that too, you know. That night when I first met him, straight out of the magic circle, he had given me that same look. At that time, he was vocal with his objections to Great-grandfather. I was no different from a Beer Mug, he said[5]. I could not serve as one of the weapons of the Magus Killer. I was a defective product."

Saber said nothing, but what Irisviel said only made her angrier. If King Arthur had ever caught a husband treating his wife in such a disgraceful manner…

"To prove that I was not a defective product, great-grandfather left me out in the disposal yard, with the spirits and my crazed siblings, the hundreds of failed experiments that come with each success. I was to come back by dawn, alive. It was cold that night, and I didn't even have clothes."

"But Kiritsugu rescued me that night."

Irisviel's eyes were closed, as if recalling the events.

"That night, he vowed to teach me anger."

"Anger?"

"Anger. For Kiritsugu, you can only have anger when you have learned to value your own happiness, when you are no longer willing to let others take that away. Kiritsugu gave me happiness; anger; a family.

I love him, and I know he loves me.

But in our seven years together, he has never forgiven himself for allowing himself what he had taken away from others. He will never forgive himself for what he did to others, and he expects no forgiveness. He has resolved to fight his battles alone, in his own way, so that others cannot fight for him."

Irisviel looked at the handgun in her hand. "Even now, he plans to fight this war alone."

Kiritsugu had already travelled to Japan ahead of time, through his own means. Irisviel and Saber would travel openly with the deliberate intent of being engaged. The King of Knights and her beautiful Master would shine like a beacon, attracting the gazes of the other masters. Emiya Kiritsugu would skulk in the shadows they cast to stab them in the back.

"Emiya Kiritsugu is not simply hiding from the other masters. He is hiding from me and you—so that only he will dirty his hands in the methods that so many others find despicable.

Kiritsugu isn't a heartless mercenary. He hurts more than anyone else every time he kills.

But he keeps on doing it.

Because he doesn't want anyone else to do it."

Irisviel closed her eyes. "If I had still been the homunculus born from the magic circle, I may have accepted that."

With a slightly awkward grip, Irisviel sighted down the top of the handgun.

"But Kiritsugu gave me happiness. He taught me how to value it. How to defend it. He taught me love. For him, I am willing to wade with him into the darkness.

We will not fail. For Ilya's sake, we cannot fail."

"You will not, milady." Putting a hand on Irisviel's handgun, Saber gently lowered it. "Milady, sheath your weapon." And then, to the surprise of everyone on board, Saber got down onto one knee.

"I, Arturia Pendragon, swear to uphold your honor, milady, and to bring you the Holy Grail.

Irisviel stared at Saber. "Saber…"

"If Kiritsugu will hide in the darkness, then I will cut it down in front of him. I will ensure that neither of you will ever have to touch the darkness."

For a moment, Irisviel simply blinked, nonplussed—and then, finally, she broke into a smile.

"Thank you, Saber."

"Think nothing of it., milady."

"Saber."

"Yes, milady?"

"Please call me Irisviel."

"Of course, mila—Irisviel."

Arturia Pendragon sighed as she leaned back into her seat.

One man could not hold up the sins of a nation, no matter how hard he tried.

Emiya Kiritsugu would become crushed under the weight of a thousand deaths and failures.

He would be driven to despair, and then to self-destruction.

He would come to hate the people he had tried to protect, despise the ideals he had once idolized.

Just as she had.

For Irisviel's sake, she would take up his burden, too. For one last time, King Arthur would wear the heavy crown of a king—so that none would have to wear it again.

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><p><strong>Cultural Notes and Shit<strong>

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><p>[1]<strong><span> Bugatti Royal<span>**e: A car designed by carmaker Bugatti during the end of the roaring twenties for royalty. Only six were made in our history, none sold to royalty, and today they are collector's items of great value. They were, however, not a commercial success until the leftover engines were sold to a railroad company, where they earned the Bugatti a great profit.

**[2] Zouaves of the Maghreb**:The French Maghreb consists of the area around Algeria, Mauritania, Tunisia and Morocco in Northern Africa. Unlike the British, who saw their extraterritorial holdings as colonies of unrelated individuals, the French (At least on paper) actively considered their holdings as parts of France (even today, France considers itself bordering Brazil and Suriname, as French Guyana is france) and actively attempted to make the locals "French," even offering assimilation as French citizens with all the rights of a Frenchman (at least on paper) to locals. By the time Algeria gained independence, there were a million Algerian-born Frenchmen (_Pied-Noirs, _blackfeet) in Algeria that were forced back to france. The Zouaves, the light infantry of the French in North Afrca, were known for their slightly-flamboyant dress of "open-fronted jackets, baggy trousers, and often sashes and oriental headgear (quoting wikipedia here)." Their unique uniforms were adopted by both Civil War regiments and the infantry of the pre-unification Papal States, the sovereign state ruled by the Pope.

**[3] Yeah I Know**: Yes, I know that the first manned hot air balloon flight was in 1783, but according to this timeline the first grail war occurred in 1770, and Justeaze obviously didn't survive its completion, so we can assume she remembered nothing of it.

**[4] What's a Stradivarius**?: A Stradivarius is a violin or string instrument created by the Italian Stradivari family, known for its high quality and even higher price. Stradivarius are stunningly expensive and prized, but in blind sound tests, even skilled judges generally cannot determine which instrument is a Stradivarius among modern high-quality violins.

**[5] Beer Mug**: Didn't make this up. This and this whole story comes from translations of the Drama CD that came with the DVD of the first season of Fate/Zero. It's a nice read, actually.

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><p><strong><span>Author's Postface and response to Reviews:<span>**

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><p><strong>Angry<strong> **Santo** - **Once more, thanks for your constant updates, and I hope you haven't quite given up on this fanfic yet, though I don't think I could blame you for it. Caster was initially slated to appear in Fate/Nightmare Apatheia while Rider starred at himself, but I felt as if I would not be able to add much to the Rider-Waver dynamic, which was already quite well-fleshed out in the original, so I switched to a completely new character instead in a last-minute agreement with HeavyValor. Next chapter will have the Knightmare Corps finally get its action chapter, and the one after it will have Kiritsugu shooting people, so I do hope you look forwards to it!**

**sephiroth12285 - Thank you for your review, and I thank you for your compliment, though I wish I had managed to write Kirei with a bit more originality. When you use the original text for an outline, it tends to accidentally become a script. However, I do intend to move away from the canon fate/zero to a completely new series. I hope you look forwards to it!  
><strong>

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><p><strong>I feel like I do owe readers an apology for taking so long (in fact, it's essentially been two months since<strong>

**the last update). Part of it had to do with the fact that I started playing Minecraft and another that Hong Kong turned out to**

**be quite a bit busier than I imagined. Either way, I finally managed to grind through this chapter after about three weeks of**

**writer's block. Hopefully, this won't happy again. I apologize once more, since this is a conversational chapter, but they**

**do need to be set up. The next two chapters should be fairly long action chapters, so I do hope you forgive my wordiness**

**and look forwards to the next chapter(s)! Leave a Review if you have time. I am not someone who does a very good job**

**of proofreading, so there will likely be a few grammar mistakes and spelling inconsistencies. -CaptainSparkles**


	14. Chapter 4: The Battle of Kochi

**Author's Preface: Once again, sorry for taking a whole month,**

**but this chapter is a grand total of 23,000 words. Honestly, I really should have**

**split it in half and posted the first half, but then the story and footnotes wouldn't**

**have integrated together. Anyhow, it's really late, I have Organic Chem tomorrow**

**and I have a Stat pretest to do tonight, so I'll make this short.**

**Also I finished this at 12:51 AM and didn't bother to proofread it, sorry, I'll get to it.**

**Soon.**

**eventually.**

**possibly.**

**maybe.**

***snore***

**-CaptainSparkles**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4 - The Battle of Kochi<strong>

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><p><em>"War drags human beings from their tasks of building and improving,<em>

_ and pushes them en masse into the category of destroyers and killers."_

-Scott Nearing

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><p><strong>Saturday, February 6th, 2010 A.T.B., 0438 Hours Tokyo Time<strong>

**H.M.S. _Polaris_, off the Japanese coast**

"Rise and shine, Knightmare Corps, it's time to earn your pay!"

1st Lieutenant Monica Kruszewski took a look at the breakfast on her plate and decided that she was not hungry.

It seemed like a waste—for once in their lives, the Navy cooks had smiled and nodded politely, and the aroma throughout the mess hall suggested that they had put extra work into today's breakfast. Yet, looking across the mess hall, Monica could see many plates laden with food that remained uneaten, some of which looked barely disturbed.

"I'll take yours if you won't eat them," Dorothea Ernst said as she laid down her platter, laden with potatoes, bacon, and raw carbohydrates. Without waiting for a response, she had already forked a few of Monica's untouched sausages.

Monica smiled. "Nothing ever makes you worry, huh?"

Dorothea paused through half of Monica's meal to glance at her. With an almighty gulp, she shrugged. "Nah, I'm worried. To be exact, I'm scared as shit. But I'm also hungry. Kayeri, though…" With a wry grin, Dorothea pointed across the table to where, watched by a concerned Lloyd, Kayeri was stuffing his face with a plateful of food.

"that's definitely a coping mechanism."

"He's going to regret that later," Kotori sighed as she sat down with her platter, which only held a few lonely potato wedges and a cup of what looked like crude oil and smelled like coffee. She smiled to Monica and Dorothea as she clasped her hands and closed her eyes for a few moments before starting to eat. Like many Britannians from southern Area 1, Area 3 and Area 6 (Author's note: Southern USA, Mexico and South America), Kotori was rigidly Catholic.

Despite almost a century of Britannian efforts, the inhabitants of what had once been the pan-South American Republic of Gran Colombia held jealously to their native past, Spanish dialects and catholic faith. With the exception of Kotori's Hopi and the other tribes that inhabited Alta California, the vast majority of Area 6 and parts of Area 3 had refused entry into the Iroquois Confederacy, which they saw as being dominated by the Northerners.

For the Britannian government in Pendragon, which opposed anything outside of Britannian English and the Church of St. Darwin, the 238 million Britannian Latin-speaking Catholics were a (at least temporarily) necessary evil—the last attempt to remove Britannian Latin as the functional language had almost led to open rebellion in Areas 6 and 8.

Monica sighed. Maybe it was faith that kept Kotori calm. Sometimes she felt a little unprotected when she saw Kotori and Lloyd's Sunday rituals. Reina and Janusz Kruszewski, who were respectively Jewish and Roman Catholic on paper but neither in practice, had never made a real effort to make Monica confirm to anything.

Perhaps it was the placebo effect, for she herself never saw any logical reason to pick a religion out of nowhere—but sometimes she wondered.

Dorothea glanced at Kotori through mouthfuls of food.

"Guess this is it, huh?"

Kotori nodded. "Yep."

Dorothea stood up. "Well, I have to join my own unit." With a grin, she put a hand on Monica's head, tousling it despite Monica's resistance.

"Take care of this kid for me while I'm gone."

"I can take care of myself—" Monica protested, but Kotori nodded solemnly.

"Of course."

"For that matter, don't die yourself."

Kotori gave a wry grin. "I know I don't have to worry about you, so I'm not going to say anything."

As she left, Dorothea raised a hand in a semi-salute before walking off.

Kotori sighed as she sat down. "You can't faze that woman."

Monica, though, smiled as she looked at Dorothea's plate, where a few morsels remained uneaten.

"No…she's just better at hiding her fear than everyone else", she said as she took a bite out of Dorothea's leftovers.

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><p><strong>Saturday, February 6th, 2010 A.T.B., 05:59 AM Tokyo Time<strong>

**Kochi Province, southern Shikoku**

"We're on air in 3…

2…

1…Go."

Matou Kariya made one last attempt to subdue his rebellious hair before smiling before the camera.

"Good morning, Japan, I'm Matou Kariya and this is _Newsline_, reporting live in a special broadcast from southern Shikoku."

Next to the camera, Uemura, the portly production assistant, gave a thumbs-up. No slip-ups yet.

"We've attached ourselves to the 14th Brigade of the Japanese Self-Defense Army to cover the brewing military situation here on the Japanese coast. Military authorities have prohibited us from reporting our exact location and numbers, but we've seen JSDF forces set up emplacements along the shikoku coast for what reports suggest will be a full-scale invasion of Japan by the Holy Empire of Britannia.

Yesterday's report by Japanese Self-Defense Navy Fleet Admiral Nozu Hirobumi has generated widespread panic, despite the assurances of Prime Minister Genbu Kururugi."

With a sigh, Kariya relaxed as Uemura made an "okay" sign with his fingers as _Newsline_ began to broadcast a section of yesterday's Diet meeting.

For Kariya, it was a welcome break. English was not an easy language to speak fluently for a native Japanese speaker.[1]

On a side screen, the video of the meeting played.

Genbu Kururugi raised his tiny fist as he yelled, seemingly defying the sea breeze that threatened to overwhelm his tinny voice.

"Europe and China stand with us—but, more importantly, justice stands on our side.

I have complete faith that our armed forces will be the divine wind that drove the mongols off our shores[2].

Today I vow to the Japanese people, on my honor as prime minister that not a single Britannian aggressor will step on Japanese soil."

Uemura glanced at Kariya. The recorded broadcast was ending soon, and Kariya would be back on air in a few seconds. Nodding, Kariya returned to his previous pose and turned back to the camera.

"Authorities have ordered all civilians living in Shikoku to evacuate into Honshu and all civilians to move inland as a precaution. If you are currently living in Shikoku or the Provinces of Kii, Awaji, Izumi, Settsu, Harima, Bizen, Bitchu, Bingo (Author's note: I am not making these up), Aki, Suo, or Ise, it is advised that you report to your local evacuation center. We at _Newsline_ and the NHK will provide you with updates as soon as we receive them.

In the meantime, I have with me Major General Matsu Kirigaya, currently in command of the 14th Brigade."

Kariya turned as the camera panned out to show Kirigaya, a rather short man with a scruffy beard and a face that seemed a little too genially chubby for a military man. His smile, too, seemed just a little too genuine as he shook Kariya's hand. The man's hand felt coarse, like sandpaper.

"General, what are your predictions about the war?"

Kirigaya smiled cryptically. "This war, for me, smells more political than tactical. The Britannias incited the Sakuradite affair in the wake of the economic downturn associated with the aftereffects of the Indochina war and then initiated this war with Japan despite resistance from both the Federation and the Europeans.

To me, this is a war that is not aimed at either Japan, Europe or China, but Britannia itself, a war in which Britannia can raise a banner of nationalism that Britannians can rally around."

"…So you believe this war will be resolved peacefully?"

Kirigaya shook his head. "It's too late for that. Britannian, Chinese and Japanese lives have already been lost in the Coral Sea—the Britannians will need to justify the loss of life with a battle. But I believe it will be a minor battle, a skirmish to inflict casualties and show the Britannian people that they have drawn blood, that the sacrifices of their countrymen were not in vain."

"So this political ploy will end there?"

Kirigaya laughed. "No…if Britannia manages to make significant gains, their goals will change. But it is the job of our military to make sure they don't make those gains, and I believe my men will do it."

"Thank you, General." Kariya looked once more at the camera. "As you can see, the Japanese military are now hunkering down for a decisive engagement. Meanwhile, diplomatic efforts in Britannia, Japan and the EU continuing, with reports of high level talks between Tokyo, Paris, Luoyang and Pendragon.

We now bring you to a special report from the Diet in Tokyo."

With a sigh, Kariya relaxed as Uemura flashed him a final thumbs-up.

"You could be an English teacher with those skills," Kirigaya said from the sidelines with a grin. "Are you sure you're not spying for Britannia?"

Kariya smiled back. "Isn't that what we reporters are supposed to do?"

"Fair enough," Kirigaya grunted. "They might underestimate us with your report anyway."

_Underestimate?_ Since the concept of records had begun, the art of falsifying them had flourished. Victorious (and defeated) generals exaggerated the enemy killed and underreported their own causalties; when you were defeated, you made a tactical withdrawal while inflicting heavy losses; one of your country's workers could mine over 100 tons of coal in less than five hours[3].

Rather, it was almost expected that Kirigaya had falsified something in his interview.

"General, off the record…"

"Oh I'm not falling for that one," Kirigaya replied. In the modern world of sensational stories and paparazzi, the term "off the record," once used to signify something that would never make it into the news, had long since lost its meaning. The press and those that they investigated did not trust each other, the press itching to grab onto whatever scoop they could obtain and their targets doing their best to keep them at arms length.

Kariya sighed as he turned to the camera. "Inoue, Uemura."

Uemura sighed regretfully as he turned off the TV camera and stepped away with Inoue, the camerawoman.

"General, what do you really think about the situation?"

For a moment, Kirigaya simply stared out at the rough coastline. Finally, he turned, his overgenuine smile replaced by a contemplative expression. "To be honest, we're all a little shocked. To think the Britannians would do a land invasion…"

Kariya said nothing as Kirigaya continued musing.

"if they wanted a show of force, the defeat they handed us at the Coral sea was enough—the Chinese won't participate in the blockade after their navy—not to mention ours—got whipped."

"Maybe they got overconfident?"

"Overconfident to the point of trying to land in Japan? They can't have forgotten the toll they paid in Tokyo bay on D-Day. A land war against Japan, China and the E.U.? Even for Britannia, it's suicidal, especially with half their armed forces tied up in Annam."

Kirigaya turned back towards the coastline, to where countless Britannian craft were waiting.

"Whatever the Britannians are attacking with, they have something that we don't know about."

* * *

><p><strong>0604 Hours<strong>

**Hokkaido Coast**

"Mongoose here, some marine just lit up a Bunker, 400 meters, firing TOWs on us."

"Visual?"

"Negative, too much smoke. The heat signatures are there on thermal."

"Solid copy, engaging with white phosphorous."

"War Pig here, they got a M-kill on us[4]. We're not moving for a while."

"Not again…copy, War Pig, mechanics are on their way. Good shot there Honey Badger."

"I don't care."

"You heard him, Honey Badger don't care—Oh shit, I think that was a HEAT round! Possible visual on enemy tank on your two, Mongoose."

"This is the shittiest call sign I've ever been stuck with…yep…wait, that's not one of the Japanese models. I think that's a EU Panzer!"

"All call signs be advised, enemy is using Panzer-Wulf. Those things eat M-33s for breakfast. Proceed with Caution—"

"It's flying Japanese colors, so I'm firing! Sabot, round ready!"

"Firing!"

"Fuck you, Jackson, you missed!"

"Reloading!"

"Mongoose, you're too far ahead of the line! Move back!"

"Mongoose, firi—"

"Shit! Was that a hit?"

"Jesus Christ, Mongoose is burning."

"Unit Lost," a serene (or uninterested) electronic voice chirped, just as Major Andreas Darlton glared at the driver.

"Turn that shit off," he barked. "We'll hear enough of it when we land."

Underneath him, the floor of his M-33 Clinton, callsign Bowflex Extreme, trembled slightly. With the radio silenced, the sound of waves seemed to overwhelm the suddenly-silent Tank compartment.

This Landing Craft Air Cushion (LCAC) hovercraft carried Bowflex Extreme, two M-1s, and thirty Britannian marines towards the front lines.

Darlton cracked open the hatch and popped his head out—just in time to be hit in the face by a burst of salty foam. The whine of a TOW that narrowly missed the LCAC caused Darlton to cringe.

65 years ago, Britannian forces had landed in Tokyo Bay in an attempt to put a swift end to the Pacific War.

This landing, though, was under different circumstances.

In the last war, the portions of the Japanese government had folded, handing over the Emperor as soon as it became clear that the Britannians were going to take Tokyo, an action that saved hundreds of thousands of Britannian (and Japanese) lives. With a hardliner such as Genbu Kururugi at the head of the government, the Japanese were not likely to surrender. Moreover, on D-day the Japanese had been spent, exhausted from a thousand defeats in the Pacific. This Japan, flush with money and international fight, was spoiling for a fight.

And yet in other ways war stayed the same. There were new ways to kill people and new ways to avoid getting killed, but the essence was the same. In the words of Mark Twain, "All war must be just the killing of strangers against whom you feel no personal animosity; strangers whom, in other circumstances, you would help if you found them in trouble, and who would help you if you needed it."

Of course, Andreas Darlton was not an unconditional pacifist. He had read about what had happened in Armenia during the first great European War, and what the E.U. had allowed to happen in Rwanda sixteen years ago[5]. He had seen what rogue Britannian and Chinese troops could do to civilians in Indochina. Some things are worth fighting for.

Darlton didn't know if this was a war worth fighting for. Andreas Darlton was a simple man, not given to extravagances. He still drove his petroleum Ford not because he hated the Japanese Sakuradite models or because he supported the Fords (the Purest of the Purists), but simply because it still worked.

He had nothing to gain from subjugating Japan, and he didn't believe in the new Britannia's policy of imperialism.

If Andreas Darlton was in charge of Britannia, he was not sure he would have declared this war.

Darlton ducked back under the tank, looking around the cramped compartment.

Inside the M-33, his crew looked back at him expectantly.

He had never asked them about it, but Darlton had seen glimpses of the lives of each of the three other men inside. He knew Kevin, the Driver, had a son, Alfred at home, the product of a failed marriage from long ago. Nicholas, the gunner enjoyed surprisingly feminine songs, and Joseph, the loader, spent most of his free time writing to his girlfriend, some aspiring country singer.

Andreas Darlton didn't fight because he believed there was something wrong with the Japanese, nor did he do it because he agreed with Britannia.

He fought because he was responsible of the three men inside this tank.

And he would rather fight all of the Nation of Japan than compromise the lives of the three men in this small, enclosed world.

"Approaching the beachhead," Kevin reported nervously, his sweaty fingers spread over the broad LCD cockpit that enveloped the Driver's seat, one of the amenities granted by the M-33 Clinton.

The Japanese-made display seemed to show no qualms about betraying its makers.

"Turn the radio back on," Darlton ordered.

Kevin nodded as he flipped a few switches around him.

"Yessir. Bowflex Extreme, ready to roll."

The Two M-1s that accompanied Bowflex Extreme immediately reported their readiness.

"Copy . Gremlin, clear to launch. Bowflex, remind me why you have that callsign?"

"Orange Star here, are we late to the party?"

With several bumps, the LCAC ground onto the rocky Hokkaido beach.

"Nope, Orange, you're just in time," Darlton growled. "Let's go."

With the patient groan of 1800 horse's worth of power, Bowflex Extreme rolled off the LCAC as Andreas Darlton took his first step into Japanese territory.

* * *

><p><strong>0610 Hours<strong>

**H.M.S. _Polaris_, off Shikoku**

**Landing Deck**

It seemed as if the whole crew of the _Polaris_ was on the flight deck. Junior seamen scrubbed the deck, leaving a slightly soapy shine in their wake. Senior seamen watched or helped move the giant crates that came out of the deck elevator under the careful supervision of the flight crew.

For most of the seamen, it was a blessing. Most had spent most of the voyage under the decks, operating the complex machinery that propped up the small city that was an aircraft carrier.

The sun seemed to have a noticeable effect on the seamen, many of which smiled in spite of the tense circumstances. Somewhere a few senior crewmen had set up a music player, and some stereotypically four-chord pop song[6] added a festive mood to everyone on board.

"Any more musical and we'll be on broadway," Rebecca E. Lee remarked drily from the bridge. Her XO, Vasquez, grinned. "It's the first time they've seen the sun for a while. Let them do what they want."

Rebecca frowned. "I realize, but they're sending men to their deaths."

"All the more reason to let them enjoy it."

* * *

><p>Monica Kruszewski nervously adjusted her Knightmare Corps uniform as she stepped out into the hangar. After a week of wearing the rather loose Army Engineering Corps uniform, the rather form-fitting pilot's suit she wore under her uniform felt slightly oppressive.<p>

She was alone in her room—Dorothea had already left with K troop, and Kotori had already went ahead.

Perhaps it was the fluorescent lighting, but the girl Monica saw in the mirror looked like she was about to vomit.

_Looks about right._

For a moment, Monica considered applying a bit more of the makeup she had brought aboard. Then she realized how stupid the idea seemed. _Who wears makeup while killing people?_

She reexamined her reflection—and then sighed. _Why would I worry about how I look now? What would be the point of looking pretty when you kill people?_

_Or maybe it's the other way around. _

_It's important to look good at your funeral._

For some reason, Monica remembered walking across the casket of her grandmother at her funeral. She remembered how beautiful her grandmother had been even in death, dressed in her best dress, her formaldehyde-treated lips brightly colored.

In death her grandmother had looked the same way she had always looked before taking Monica to the Synagogue.

As if, at any moment, she would wake up from her nap and welcome Monica with her usual crinkled smile.

When Monica died, she wanted to look like that.

And yet a thousand images flashed through Monica's head.

_What if my Knightmare goes down and I fail to eject?_ Monica saw herself slumped over a ruined cockpit, chest distended by a jagged shard of metal as she tried to gather her own intestines.

_What if I'm forced to eject?_ She saw herself twitching on the ground from multiple bullet wounds, like the soldiers she had seen in videos from the Annam campaign.

_What if the VTOL failed?_ She saw herself in the wreckage of her knightmare, a single mangled arm she could just barely recognize as her own extending out from a mess of red flesh.

_What if the engine explodes? _She saw herself as a smouldering, human-shaped pile of ash and charred bone, still feebly trying to crawl out of the remains of her cockpit[7].

_What if I hit a land mine? What I get captured? What if the VTOL fails and I drown? What if a Japanese fighter intercepts the VTOL? What if the cockpit collapses? What if—_

"Monica!"

With a burst of fear shock, Monica reacted instantly, leaping back as she drew her survival knife—

"It's alright, Monica, it's just me," Kotori said reassuringly, both palms out. Monica was surprised to see a cut across her cheek.

"Kotori, who—"

For a moment, Monica stared in confusion—and then she noticed that the knife gripped tightly in her hands was slightly wet. With an unreasonably loud clatter, the knife dropped out of her hands onto the ground.

"Kotori—sorry—I—"

Monica's tongue seemed to have failed her, even as her mind raced.

_I just assaulted a fellow soldier._ _I'm going to get a court martial. They're going to discharge me in front of everyone. _Monica could almost see the heartbroken expression on her grandfather's face—the face that she had only seen once, at her grandmother's funeral. She could see the shame in her father's eyes, the disappointment. And yet, somehow, she felt relief.

_Maybe this way, I won't have to die like that. I can run away. _Shesimlutaneously felt hope and repulsion—hope that it could be true, repulsion that she could possibly think that way.

And then Monica shuddered as she felt something warm collide with her.

Monica blinked as she felt Kotori's arm around her. For some reason, the feeling seemed to have sapped all the strength in her body, and she fell forwards onto Kotori, who propped her up.

"Don't worry. You'll be fine."

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't worry about it. We're all scared too. You'll be fine."

"I—"

"You'll be fine, Monica. We'll all be fine."

"…"

"I promise you," Kotori's voice said, firmly, hugging Monica closer than ever.

"…Thanks, Kotori."

Putting both hands on Monica's shoulders and leaning back, Kotori examined Monica's face with a look of concern.

"You alright now?"

"Yeah."

Kotori smiled.

"Excellent. Now go wash your face. I'll wait for you."

* * *

><p>"Kruszewski, Talasi, it's about time."<p>

"As if you have any right to lecture me about punctuality, Old man," Kotori retorted airily.

"Touché," Captain Owen King chuckled self-depreciatively. He was sober today, unusually.

Kayeri, Captain King and Lloyd Harkins were waiting at the mess hall. The vacated chairs and tables suggested that, as usual, 3rd Squadron's D troop would once again be the last ones to arrive on the flight deck.

"We were supposed to be up three minutes ago," Lloyd remarked with a slight sigh of irritation.

"Kayeri, your tie is crooked," Kotori snapped with a "tch" of irritation as she strode over to Kayeri and grabbed his tie, which was indeed crooked.

"We're going to a battlefield, why does my tie matter," Kayeri groaned.

"Kayeri, you represent the Iroquois Confeder—"

"Alright, alright," Kayeri sighed as he put a finger on the cut on Kotori's cheek, examining the slightly-pasty blood on his finger. "What happened to your cheek—?"

Monica suddenly felt herself turn red.

"Shaving accident, my moustache is getting out of control" Kotori replied briskly, yanking Kayeri's tie with unnecessary force. Monica wasn't sure if it was just her, but she felt as if Kotori's ears seemed a little redder than usual.

Kayeri gave Kotori a long stare, as if searching for one or two moustache hairs that could have escaped the blade. "Seriously?"

"What the hell do you think?!"

Kotori's expression looked slightly dangerous, so Kayeri shut up.

The insides of the _Polaris_ seemed deserted as D troop walked through the walkways and halls that led up to the hangar.

Kayeri glanced around suspiciously. "Is this meant to be some kind of surprise party?"

"No," Lloyd sighed, "they're waiting for us on the flight deck."

"So it IS a surprise party."

"Without the 'surprise' part. Or, for that matter, the 'party' part."

"Good god, sunlight! Beautiful!" Kayeri grinned broadly, ignoring Lloyd's irritated response as they stepped into the hangar (or, as the Air force pilots preferred to call it, The Basement). The sunlight shot through the cavernous gaps that were the deck elevator entrances, filling the hangar with a soft sunlight that seemed so much warmer than the harsh fluorescent light of the ship's interior.

Several seamen and landing crew were waiting at the elevator. Up above, the sounds of voices and music did indeed make it sound like a party.

"You guys ready?"

Captain King grinned as they stepped onto the deck elevator. "Beam us up."

The seamen grinned. "Good Luck. Give 'em hell for us."

With the careful precision required to lift a fighter jet a full story, the deck elevator went up.

Monica looked at her teammates.

Kayeri grinned a grin that seemed more sick than excited, a complete contrast to Kotori, who had closed her eyes and was murmuring something to the rosary she wore around her neck. Lloyd, too, seemed halfway through some kind of prayer. Captain King, on the other hand, had taken out flask of what everyone knew was alcohol. Uncapping it quietly, he took a sip and took a grin at Monica. "You'll do fine, Kruszewski."

"Thanks, sir."

King sighed. "Why are you and Lloyd the only people who call me that?"

There was a deep breath of anticipation as the ground crew and seamen waited on the edges of the deck elevator. The last of the Knightmare Corps would finally arrive. It was in near-reverent silence that the elevator finally reached the top.

In silence, the five members of 3rd Squadron D troop walked through the ranks of waiting airmen and flight crew.

In solemn silence, they walked off the elevator towards the humanoid mechas that awaited them.

Even the other Knightmare pilots, halfway boarding, stared as they walked, seemingly in perfect unison—

And then Kayeri doubled over.

"Guys, I'm thinking that maybe all that bacon in the morning was a bad idea…"

For a moment, everyone simply stared—and then, soundlessly, Kotori walked over to Kayeri and punched him in the stomach.

* * *

><p>Monica settled down and strapped herself down inside her Glasgow, D-04, a unit she had nicknamed Mirele after her sister.<p>

"Kayeri, you can't read the mood for shit," Kotori growled from her knightmare, D-02, nicknamed Awatovi,

"Ahhh…it's nice to be back," Kayeri winced as he settled in the seat of his Knightmare, D-03, affectionally nicknamed Ugly.

"It has been a while," Lloyd note as he checked the equipment of his Knightmare, D-05, named D-05 after its registration number.

Captain Owen King glanced up at his Glasgow, D-01, Alicia. "I'm back, Alicia," Owen sighed. He could almost smell the Rosemary she had always wore—

"Oy, old man!"

King sighed as he turned to face the black woman who ran over. "You know, Ernst, I do have a name."

Dorothea Ernst shrugged. "This conversation isn't about you, you know. It's about Monica."

"Ah, Kruszewski. The almost-britannia—"

Dorothea suddenly leaned in, her hands mysteriously already at Owen's collar. "Don't give me that purist crap right now, Owen. I'm just warning you now. If you let anyone lay a hand on Monica…well, you'll regret that day."

Owen shrugged. "Of course." Dorothea, incensed by the nonchalant attitude, opened her mouth—and then stared at the hands that had, a second ago, held Owen King's collar.

"You know, Captain, you still have a long way to go if that's how you think war works," Owen remarked lightly as he walked past Dorothea towards his knightmare—and though his tone was light, Dorothea suddenly felt a nervous shiver travel down her back.

"I wish I still thought that way. I'll protect Kruszewski as best as I can. But, Ernst, even if I were to fail…well, I have enough regrets that one more wouldn't hurt."

Dorothea watched the slightly portly man scramble aboard his Glasgow.

"Something wrong, Captain?"

Sighing, Dorothea turned around to her 1st Lieutenant. "Nothing, Tseng. Get onboard and prep for launch."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

><p><strong>Kochi Province, Shikoku<strong>

"Inoue, get down!"

Inoue Naomi opened her eyes, her ears ringing.

All around her, shapes were running back forth, shouting. Somebody shook her.

"Inoue, are you alright?!"

Inoue closed her eyes and slowly opened them again. Her vision focused as she found herself staring at the concerned but grim face of Matou Kariya.

"Everything in one piece?"

Inoue propped herself up and looked around. All around her, the rest of the news crew were already up on their feet, running to and fro as they inspected and reset their equipment.

Grabbing her senpai's outstretched hand, Inoue pulled herself up with one hand while dusting off her blue bulletproof vest with another.

"Yeah, I'm fine!" she yelled over the ringing of her ears.

Kariya smiled. "Good! Keep the camera rolling!"

"That blast as a little close," Uemura yelled as he ran over. "Reminds me when we were in Palestine."

Kariya winced. "Except there both the Palestinians and those Israeli insurgents were trying to kill us. Here it just happened to miss us."

The casual nonchalance with which the rest of the NHK news crew could chat in the middle of a battle seemed insane to Inoue.

She had, of course, seen war footage. She remembered seeing old clips from the Indochina war or the Second pacific war. She had seen videos of the battles in Palestine, the riots in India.

But real life…real life was different.

It was louder. Messier. So much more…real.

"Firing!"

With a deafening roar that almost knocked Inoue off her feet, the JSDF artillery gun near them returned the insult with a tongue of flame.

Scrambling on the ground, she caught sight of her camera, dusty but seemingly still functional. Reaching out, she grabbed the Camera, slowly standing up—just as another explosion threatened to knock her over once more.

At that moment, a JSDF soldiers stumbled in front of them. Kariya ran over.

"You alright?!"

"We're doing alright! Holding them back at least! You guys Civvies?"

"Press corps!"

"Move back! General Kirigaya ordered me to tell you guys to move back! The Britannians have landed Armor and Artillery! You guys are in range!"

Uemura wasn't convinced. "And lose out on exclusive footage?! We'll be fine!"

"We've been in worse," Kariya grinned—and then, for a moment, everyone ducked as a wave of dust washed over them, the aftermath of a stray artillery shell.

The soldier glanced at the news crew and then his comrade and then shrugged.

"Up to you!" With a shrug, the JSDF soldier turned around, crouching as he ran back in the direction of the front.

Kariya turned to Inoue. "How you feeling?"

"Fine, senpai," Inoue yelled.

"You're taking this a lot better than I did," Kariya remarked as a TOW shot over them.

"Yeah, Kariya pissed himself at Hebron," Uemura added loudly.

"That I did," Kariya confirmed with a self-depreciating smile.

"Nobody would blame you if you did too," Uemura yelled over the ringing of another explosion. "It takes a certain amount of courage to go onto a battlefield with a weapon to kill someone. Takes even more to go onto a battlefield without one."

Inoue, though, simply grinned as she brushed a strand of her darkish blue hair out of her face.

Yes, she was scared—but more than that, she was excited.

This was why she had chosen to be a journalist.

She was not watching a war clip. She was not watching the "live" explosions, or listening to the sound of battle, rehashed through a television.

She was living it.

* * *

><p>Kayeri Brant leaned backwards as he slouched in Ugly's piloting chair.<p>

Mindlessly, he twirled the service pistol in his hand as he hummed a tune to himself.

He glanced at the four video windows of his teammates at the corner of the Glasgow's display.

To each of them, he probably looked and sounded completely relaxed, like he always did.

If only he believed it.

Catching the pistol by the handle, Kayeri slid it into his side holster as he gazed at the sea and sky in front of him, their natural beauty not-quite-perfectly imitated on the Glasgow's Plasma display.

In another situation it would have been perfect weather.

It was a surprisingly clear morning on this crisp February day, though inside the temperature-regulated cockpit it was a warm 65 degrees. Above Kayeri and Ugly, the vast batlike shape of the Knightmare Transport VTOL acted as an unintentional sunshade.

Attached and piloted via multiple umbilicals and the Knightmare Frame's own Slash Harkens, the Sakuradite-powered VTOL provided a compact vehicle with which the Glasgows would be deployed.

Yet, for all their low cost and simple piloting, they were neither particularly fast nor well-armed.

A well-placed missile or a stray Japanese fighter…Kayeri gulped as he looked down at the sea. It was a long drop.

Idly, Kayeri brought up and scrolled through the pre-deployment briefing.

For several hours now, Britannian Marines and Army divisions had been pushing into the Japanese coast, carving out a landing zone for the deployment of the Glasgow.

The Japanese had not been particularly happy about the Britannians parked on their coast, and the fighting had been heavy on both sides.

The Britannian M-33, vaunted for its technological superiority, had found its match in the German Panzer-Wulf, a new design only completed a year ago, and the armored advance had been halted. Confined to a narrow stretch of land in Shikoku the Britannian forces were fighting for their lives.

Without a forwards base, the Britannians would have to withdraw.

It would be the Kayeri's job to carve that forward base for them.

And, to be honest, Kayeri Brant wasn't sure he would be able to do it.

This would be the Glasgow's first battlefield deployment. There was no guarantee that everything would work out, that Kayeri wouldn't come out of it in a body bag.

Kayeri wondered how his family would react if a Britannian Military officer showed up at the door.

He remembered his father's expression when he had failed to make it into Stanford Law.

It wasn't anger, or disillusionment, or shame, or even disappointment that showed on Joseph Brant III's face. It was just acceptance, as if he had expected nothing else.

Kayeri Joseph Brant was never a good student, though he was never a bad one. He was not Brilliant like his sister, though he was certainly smarter than average. For most of his life, he had simply cruised, relying on his own wits, a little cheating here and there, to cruise through high school.

Perhaps if he had really invested himself from the beginning, he could have made it.

But by the time he had truly started trying, it had been too late.

It was hardly a surprise that Kayeri had failed to make it into one of the most prestigious law schools in Britannia, but Kayeri had expected his father to at least show some shame, some irritation, some disappointment.

The fact that his father hadn't even reacted confirmed to Kayeri what he had long since figured out—that Joseph Brant III had never harbored any expectations of his son, Kayeri Brant.

After all, it was Mika, Kayeri's sister, that would likely replace Joseph as Sachem.

It even seemed that his father had made plans for his failure. The next day, Joseph Brant had handed him the acceptance letter to the Britannian Air Force Academy he had not applied for. Literally a week later the official announcement was made that he and Kotori Claveria Talasi of the Hopi, his (Far more accomplished) childhood friend, would be wed.

If Kayeri died on the fields of Japan, he suspect his father would mourn him. He didn't doubt that his father loved him. But it would only be what his father expected to happen to the son who would never take his seat as Grand Sachem[8].

And, for some reason, that irritated Kayeri.

An insistent beeping from the dashboard brought Kayeri back to the present. On the radar screen superimposed onto the side, a group of triangles were flying towards them, marked Friendly by High Command.

And then, with a delay and then a roar, five shapes shot over the VTOLs.

"Hawkeye Squadron, here to roll out the carpet for you folks."

With a grin, Captain King flashed a thumbs up that only the other Knightmare Pilots could see. "Thanks, Hawkeyes! Wish I were on one of those birds with you. You all spooled up?"

For a moment, there was silence from Hawkeye 1. "King? Is that you, Owen?"

And, suddenly, Captain King burst out into a joyful laugh. "Adrian? By god, I thought you sounded familiar! And a Wing Commander now!"

Hawkeye 1's serious voice suddenly seemed so much more mirthful. "Owen, you flathatting bastard! I haven't seen you since Rio Branco! I didn't know they posted you with the Autobots."

Owen laughed an embarrassed smile. "They couldn't figure out any other place to put me. How's Marilyn doing? How old are Kewell and Marika now?"

"Too old. The old body can't pick 'em up anymore," Hawkeye 1 replied. "And how is Macke—" his voice trailed off.

A few awkward second hung about before Hawkeye 1 finally spoke up. "Well, we're not far from the coast now, and you know how dangerous these Blue-water ops are. Take care of yourself, Owen!"

"You too, bubba," Captain King replied in a voice that seemed way too upbeat.

"Thanks. Hawkeye 1, out."

Captain King seemed almost a little sad as he turned back to the screen.

Lloyd took the chance to break the silence. "Sir, who was that?"

Captain King smiled. "Adrian Soresi. We went to the Air Force Academy together. We used to be rivals…now he's a Wing Commander while I'm just a Captain."

"I wonder what went wrong," Kayeri muttered. If Captain King heard him, he ignored it.

"Lloyd, the Soresi live in Virginia, your family might know them—"

Kotori's report suddenly cut through the Captain's sentence. "Approaching the Shikoku coast!"

* * *

><p>"This is censorship, a violation of the freedom of the press!" Uemura's loud complaints fell on deaf ears as the NHK news crew wandered around the JSDF camp.<p>

"I'm sorry, but you men are also citizens of Japan, and it is our duty as the JSDF to defend our citizens," Major General Matsu Kirigaya said in a gentle but firm tone. Everywhere, JSDF soldiers were setting up sandbags and setting up artillery. The Japanese had slowly been withdrawing towards the city of Kochi as the Britannian forces pressed in, and now the general staff headquarters was now based in the outskirts of the largely-evacuated city.

"You can report on the situation at the General HQ from here," Kirigaya remarked in a conciliatory tone. "Thanks," Matou Kariya replied with a smile as he looked around. Though there was an air of chaos within the camp, there was an order within the disorder—for all their exhausted expressions, the general staff was still functioning well. The news that reinforcements would be arriving from Honshu had helped Japanese spirits, and the JSDF officers were acting with newfound confidence.

"We'll lure them into Kochi and take them down there. Their tanks can't maneuver properly in those streets, and their artillery can't be used to their best extent."

"Set up roadblocks along every major intersection. If they're going to take the city they're going to have to drown us in their blood."

As Uemura followed after General Kirigaya with his protests, Kariya regarded Inoue, who was brushing dust off her vest and a JSDF helmet a considerate soldier had placed on her head. For all her inexperience, she had weathered the battle surprisingly well. Though she bore a few bruises, she looked ready to leap into the battlefield again.

Then again, she had not seen the worst of reporting.

Kariya remembered cases he had once covered—the grisly killings a few months ago at his hometown of Fuyuki—the remnants of a Jewish suicide bombing at a Palestinian government building—the nightclub fire in Osaka—

Kariya shook his head. There was a time for that. Not now.

A sudden bustle at the radar screens caught his attention.

"Inoue!" Calling her over, Kariya walked quietly but purposefully towards the assembled officers.

"What's going on here?"

An officer turned around, seemingly unaware that Kariya was not a military officer. "Reports from the Tokyo and Hokkaido front. They're not making any sense."

"What do you mean?"

"They're reporting something new. Some kind of giant suit of armor."

"…you mean, like a Giant robot?"

"Yes, something of that sort."

* * *

><p>"Empire, this is D troop. We're landing in 45 seconds. We're not late for the party, I see."<p>

"D troop, this is Empire Actual. Be advised, the LZ is hot, repeat, the LZ is hot. You are Weapons Free on landing. Assume anything not allied is hostile."

"Roger."

"Empire to D troop, how Copy?"

"LZ is hot, weapons free, blab la bla."

"King, stick to protocol! In that case, Empire out. Good hunting."

"Thanks, Empire, D Troop out."

The ground below Monica Kruszewski and D-04, Mirele, looked torn apart. Trees and houses lay broken, crushed by countless tanks or blown apart by constant shells. Units of infantry moved to and fro, while medics and Red Cross officers dressed in white weaved through the battle to carry off the dead and wounded.

Monica gulped as she saw what she fervently hoped wasn't the bottom half of a soldier. She averted her eyes. D troop, normally so talkative, was completely silent as they flew over the conflict. In thirty seconds, they would be entering their first battle, killing people or being killed.

"Landing in 5."

"Let's fucking do this," Kayeri muttered under his breath.

"4."

Kotori touched the rosary beads on her arm as she whispered something in spanish.

"3."

Lloyd closed his eyes in a silent prayer as he thumbed his controls.

"2."

With a frantic twist, Captain King took a big gulp of his whiskey, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"1."

And suddenly, Monica didn't feel scared.

Nor did she feel especially brave.

In fact, she felt nothing at all as she grit her teeth and grasped the control yoke with sweaty hands.

"Deploying."

* * *

><p>"What the fuck is that," Lieutenant Josui Kusakabe of the JSDF muttered to himself as he watched the robots descend from their mounts.<p>

"The better question," Captain Aoki Sasahara replied drily as he tapped the Zaku sticker on his assault rifle, "is how they came up with giant robots before we did."

* * *

><p>Suspended on two nearly-invisible umbilicals, the Glasgows descended from the VTOLs like avenging angels, touching down with nary a sound. Silently, the umbilicals detached, snapping back up as the VTOLs turned to return to their carriers.<p>

"Deploying factspheres."

Silently, the domes that dominated each glasgow's head opened up, revealing a smallish, greenish dome that seemed to glow.

In several milliseconds, the supercomputer based in the Glasgow's head analyzed the information the factsphere had gathered.

A second later, the Glasgow's display changed, suddenly registered hostiles, outlined in red, and allies, outlined in green.

The JSDF soldiers hiding behind another ruined tank were identified in infrared.

The Japanese tank hidden in the trees identified by its heat signature and then matched, with 88% accuracy, with the Mitsubishi Type 10.

Finally, a marker in yellow appeared in the distance—the Glasgow's current objective.

With a hiss, the Glasgow's factsphere retracted, covered once more by the piece of armor plate.

Monica Kruszewski's hands tightened on her controls.

"1st Lieutenant Monica Kruszewski, Sortieing," she said in a voice that seemed too calm to possibly be her own.

"Weapons free, weapons free!"

For a fraction of a second, the Glasgow's landspinners ground against the ground—and then suddenly the Glasgows came to life.

"Kayeri, let's go! Pincer!"

Ugly and Mirele suddenly screamed into action, spreading apart and flanking the JSDF as it tank prepared to fire.

"Firing!"

With the sound of the fabric of heaven tearing, Kayeri and Monica opened fire with the assault rifles that their knightmares held.

Aesthetically an upsized version of the Britannian standard Armalite AR-24A assault rifle, the internal mechanism within the Glasgow standard sniper rifle was as novel as the Glasgow itself.

With a roar of flame, the JSDF Type 10 exploded in a burst of heat and flame that obscured the huge casings that fell to the ground.

For the Glasgow, which stood on two spindly, if nimble legs, the standard heavy artillery gun would be sufficient to knock the Glasgow over.

As such, the Glasgow needed something that could provide the same firepower with less recoil. The knightmare assault rifle wouldn't pack the one-hit-kill capacity that a sniper rifle would provide—but that wouldn't matter when you could shoot 700 anti-tank AP rounds in a minute.

"Nice job," Captain King said, his voice suddenly more serious than ever. "Now get a move on. We got a firebase to take."

Kotori's voice sounded grim. "Monica, Kayeri! Enemy reinforcements, twelve o'clock! Type-10s!"

And then, with an explosion of dirt, the ground behind Kayeri's Glasgow shuddered. In the distance, a line of five tanks roared out their defiance.

"Spread out! Break Formation!"

With a roar of the engines, the five knightmares spread apart, moving in jagged zig-zag patterns as they charged towards the tanks. Perhaps surprised by the onslaught, the tanks started moving backwards.

"Monica, cover me!"

"Copy." With skill borne of years of practice, Monica's hands automatically grasped their controls as Mirele sprayed a burst of assault rifle fire at the tanks as Kayeri swerved Ugly behind a mound of dirt. Fired wildly, most of them exploded around the tanks, but a lucky shot exploded right next to the tank's base. Immediately, the tank stopped backing away, though it continued firing—a mobility kill.

The four tanks turned to face Monica's knightmare—just as, with a burst of dirt and the roar of the Yggdrasil drive pushed to its utmost, Kayeri's Glasgow shot over the dirt mound, landing with another spray of dirt behind the tanks. Skidding in the dirt, the Glasgow burst back into motion as Kayeri strafed the hapless type-10s, riddling them with bursts from the assault rifle. Two of the tanks went up in flames, the whine of exploding shells almost sounding like a scream at the unfairness of the fight. Monica almost felt sorry for them.

Almost.

Surprised, the remaining mobile tank turned towards Kayeri—just as Captain King shot past, finishing the tank with a close-range burst of assault rifle fire.

A burst from Monica finished the crippled tank.

"Don't start the battle without me," King smiled grimly.

"You sure you're not too old to keep up?" Kayeri remarked drily.

"Cut the joking," Kotori snapped. "We've just got a different set of orders. One of those German Panzers has been holding back our guys at a checkpoint two miles from here. We're going to have to clear that up.

"Yeah, yeah," Kayeri muttered as the Glasgows shot away in clouds of dust, leaving behind the burning hulks of five tanks and the men who had been in them.

* * *

><p>"Keep going, men, we've got them on the run," Captain Aoki Sasahara yelled as he fired another burst out of his assault rifle. The main road up to Kochi was now all that stood between the Britannians and the city—and the JSDF had resolved to hold it. With three of the JSDF's precious imported Panzer-wulf and the cover of what had once been a small, quiet town, Aoki and his men had managed to repel four successive waves of Britannian invaders—the hulks of several destroyed M1s and M-33s lay burning. The corpses of the tank crew of an M-1 showed where they had bailed out of the burning tank and tried to make a run for it.<p>

Tried.

_At this rate, we might actually hold Kochi,_ Josui Kusakabe thought to himself.

Here, at least, the JSDF, long ridiculed as an imitation of the Britannians, was holding its own against the largest and technologically advanced nations in the world.

With a metallic clang and a shout of fire, a Panzer-Wulf hurled another shell into the distance.

A lot of this miraculous defense could be chalked up to the Panzer-Wulfs. Their heavy armor and great firepower combined to overwhelm the cheaper and more-nimble M-33s. Only one of the Panzer-wulfs had yielded to the Britannian tanks, while much could be said for the shriveled M-33s and M-1s that littered the ground around them.

Suddenly, the officer of one of the Panzer-wulfs popped out of his tank. "Captain, reports say that some of those giant robots are coming our way!"

"This is going to be difficult," Captain Sasahara remarked drily, as if annoyed by the weather.

"Come on, men, let's go knock down some Gundams."

* * *

><p>"Enemy in sight," Kayeri reported from his position in the vanguard. With the speed of a race car, D shot down the road, the landspinners tearing up the concrete.<p>

On the sides of the roads, burning hulks and bodies littered the ground, both Japanese and Britannian—the main route up to the city of Kochi had been fought contentiously by both sides.

Monica, from her position behind Captain King, checked her equipment. So far, things were not going too terribly—they had encountered Dorothea's unit en route, and it appeared they had yet to take any casualties.

All they had to do it was keep it that way.

"Halt, friendlies ahead," Kayeri reported, slowing down as the knightmares skidded to a stop around a group of Infantrymen, tanks and APCs, some clearly flying Britannian Blue.

Captain King drew up to an officer who seemed to be in charge. The officer stared incredulously.

"What the hell is that?"

"Captain Owen King, Knightmare Corps. What's the problem, soldier?"

"We can't move forwards, sir. 8th Armored and 22nd Mechanized here, we were trying to take the checkpoint before they fortified it."

Captain King frowned, though the army officers wouldn't be able to tell—the Video Communication system used by the Glasgow had yet to be adopted by the rest of the Britannian army.

"Where's the the armor I called for?"

The officer pointed in the direction of the clearing, where several burning hulks lay.

"Didn't count on those German tanks there. Those things pack more armor than all my division put together. We tried our AT-4s, Javelins, HESH rounds, no good. I'm lucky I bailed out of my M-33 before it blew." The officer looked around. "So where's Armored part of the Armored Division?"

"We're it," Captain King said.

The Army Officer stared. "I wanted tanks, not Megatron and the destructicons."

"Not like I can disobey orders," King replied, almost apologetically.

The officer sighed. "If it were me, I'd return you guys to Toys ' R Us, but feel free to try. If Four battle tanks couldn't beat these guys, I don't see how you and Mazinger Z[9] is going to come out of this alive."

"We won't know until we try," the Captain remarked as he checked his own assault rifle. "Talasi, what info do we have on the Panzer-Wulf?"

Kotori paused as she brought up something on the screen of her Glasgow. As the unit Mechanic and Comms officer, her Glasgow packed a more complex communication and data system than the rest of the unit.

"It's got a new APS[10], swats slower projectiles out of the air. Probably how the Infantry's AT4s and Javelins failed. Some kind of Carbide armor. Let's not talk about firepower. Needless to say, get hit by one of those things and your ejection seat isn't about to save you."

For all its mobility, a Glasgow's armor was only slightly better than that of a top-class APC. A battle tank's HEAT round would be more than enough to tear a hole straight through a knightmare.

"Did anybody else in the Knightmare corps engage those tanks yet?"

"Negative, 2nd Squadron got ambushed by anti-air, so they're having their own problems. First corps is also balls deep in the JSDF main army. We're on our own."

Captain King shrugged. "Well, that's how it should be. Let's have a crack at it. Lloyd, try to get into the trees and get ready to cover me if things go wrong."

"Covering you," Monica started, but King spoke first. "Kruszewski, Talasi, Brant, stay back."

"Old Man," Kayeri protested, "There are better ways to kill yourself than to throw yourself against something we haven't fought before."

"And what, are we going to have to retreat if all of us get killed?"

Kayeri stopped midretort. The Glasgows had not, by any means, been deployed en masse. The eight five-knightmare troops in the 3rd Squadron would be expected to fight against every Japanese military unit from Shikoku to Kyushu. The loss of all of D troop would mean the loss of over 10% of the Southern Expeditionary Corp's knightmare compliment.

"You kiddies are a bit too inexperienced and far too young to throw yourselves at tanks," King remarked with a grin. "Lloyd, assume command if this goes south."

With that, the Captain's Glasgow raised its assault rifle and began rolling towards the clearing.

For a moment, Kayeri seemed surprised, a little undecided as he watched the Captain drive past him.

"Good luck, ol…sir," Kayeri finally managed.

Captain King said nothing as, with a burst of dust, his Glasgow shot into the clearing.

* * *

><p>"Enemy, in sight!"<p>

"It's the gundam," Captain Sasahara noted with all the irritation of a picnicker caught in the rain. Raising a bent arm, Sasahara beckoned to the troops behind him.

"Cover this area, stay back. Don't want to get hit by the APS."

The Panzer-Wulf's Active Protection System deployed a small barrage of metal pellets to destroy low-velocity explosives such as rockets. They also did a number on human skin.

"Captain, this is Kinoshita, we all clear?"

"Loud and clear. Light 'em up."

"Roger, firing."

* * *

><p>The pressure hit D-01 Alicia, knocking away and then sucking the head in its wake, the whistling whine hitting only a fraction of a second (and yet 25 times slower) than the actual HEAT round.<p>

Countless assault rifle rounds pinged off the Glasgow's armor as it skidded past the explosion of the tank shell behind him, its two legs spread out to lower its profile.

_This was how it should be_, Owen King thought to himself.

With the bullets and AT4 rockets howling around him and the wind almost in his face, he almost felt like he was in an F-18 once again, those tanks and infantry just AA.

The ground underneath his feet shook and vibrated wildly through the Glasgow's shock absorbers as, rounding the wreckage of an M-1, Alicia leapt over a shell crater, now almost up in the face of the Panzer-wulfs. With a quick glance, Captain King glanced at his ammunition read-out just in case. With a quick thumb, he flipped off the plastic cover on the targeting yoke.

His fingers lightly kissed the trigger for just enough for the Glasgow to let out three roars with the sound of tearing fabric. The other tank reacted with almost comical slowness, its shells cutting through empty air as the Glasgow gyrated in a sudden 110 degree swerve, kicking a small layer of dust in almost a mocking gesture to the Panzer-Wulfs as it let off several more rounds at the Panzer-wulfs.

Skidding to a temporary halt, Captain King retracted the armor plating on his factspheres to gaze into the cloud of dust and smoke left by the impact.

"Captain, did you get it?"

"Don't know, wait for it…"

And then the dust was blown away by the tank round that narrowly shot past D-01.

"Guess that's a no," King grinned. A normal anti-tank shell would pack enough recoil to knock the Glasgow onto its back, and so the anti-tank ammunition that the Glasgow packed was a smaller, lowered-power version. The hope was that multiple impacts would make up for the weakness of each individual bullet.

Apparently, judging by the dented and dusty but intact Panzer-wulf, this wasn't the case.

"Talasi, tell High Command we might need a bit more dakka. Lloyd, your turn."

"Guess that's my call," Lloyd Harkins muttered, more or less to himself. With a roar, D-05 awoke from standby its lightly droning Yggdrasil drive roaring into action as the Glasgow lowered the large cylinder it held on its shoulder.

Each member of D troop had a role. Kayeri, Monica and Captain King were scouts, armed with an assault rifle and built for maneuverability, built to combat the lesser threats. Kotori, as mechanic and communications officers, carried more electronic equipment.

And Lloyd's duty was demolition.

On his screen, the outline of the two Panzer-wulfs showed up in red through the trees, transmitted via Captain King's factspheres.

While the artillery piece Lloyd carried his shoulder had an official name, most of the Knightmare Corps simply referred to it as a "giant cannon."

They were more or less correct.

"Locking down," Lloyd muttered. With a groan, the Glasgow braced itself, several specially-built spikes anchoring the Glasgow to the ground.

"Targeting."

An ominous crackling filled the air, almost as if the air was electrified.

Assisted by targeting, Lloyd locked the position of his cannon as the crackling intensified.

Inside the cockpit, the hum of the Yggdrasil drive drowned everything as it intensified, threatening to burst through Lloyd's eardrums and shatter the Glasgow—

"Firing."

In a single moment, all the power accumulated by the Yggdrasil Drive released itself in the fraction of a second.

Like a bolt from Olympus, the Giant Cannon discharged in a single crack of electrostatic thunder.

As if struck by some invisible fist, the trees seemed to shatter instantaneously shattered either by the shell or the shockwave it left in its wake.

The Panzer-wulf collapsed like a cereal box for a moment—and then erupted as its ammunition combusted.

* * *

><p>Josui Kusakabe picked himself up with shaking hands. He could hear nothing save for a piercing ring that did nothing to help his raging headache.<p>

One moment, the lead tank had been firing at the mecha cross the field.

The next, Kusakabe was on the floor, and, crumpled like a soda can, was the burnt out hulk of the first of the Panzer-Wulfs.

He could almost hear Captain Sasahara as he made a hand motion that Kusakabe could vaguely remember as being to go prone.

Kusakabe didn't mind—he was already on the ground.

The second tank drew back, its turret rotating to face the new threat.

One second, the tank was there, the crew's voices shouting over the radio.

And then, another blinding flash, a crash of lightning.

And then it wasn't.

The crispy scent of ozone lingered in the air, with a few crackles of residual electricity.

For 500 years, munitions were driven by gunpowder. For five hundred years, humanity had refined the art of combustion—perfected it, specialized it, strengthened it so it shot faster, made less smoke, hit faster, hit harder. [11]

But it had reached its limit.

No matter how much one streamlined the bullet or increased the power of the propellant, it would be impossible to accelerate a projectile faster than 1.5 km/s or greater than 80 km.

As tank armor and defenses constantly improved, the military would need weapons that could pierce them.

Powered by the Glasgow's Yggdrasil drive, G-01's rail cannon released its its round at five times that velocity with the power of 35 Gigajoules, the equivalent of more than half ton of TNT detonating.

There were rumors about a handheld version of the Giant Cannon that would replace the Army's aging Armalite Carbines.

Lloyd, as a former member of the Armored Division, shivered as the railcannon's targeting visor withdrew from his right eye.

The day that the Britannian Army adopted railguns for small-arms would be the day that armor no longer became relevant.

Yet now was not the time to worry about that kind of thing.

Now, there was a war to win.

* * *

><p>With a shrug, the Glasgow unlocked from its firing position as it shouldered its giant cannon.<p>

"8th Armor and Mechanized, the bad guys are down, you're clear to move ahead."

"Moving up, moving up," Kayeri reported as he drove up to Captain King's position, Monica and Kotori behind him.

"Watch out, they've got RPGs," the Captain ordered as he squeezed off another burst with his assault rifle. With a trail of smoke, a malfunctioning RPG spiraled past before exploding harmlessly in the air.

The Infantry that had been escorting the tanks was still putting up a feeble defense. However, several had already been wounded in the previous battles, and they seemed to be on the verge of retreat.

Raising his own assault rifle to his shoulder, Kayeri squeezed off a burst. Several of the Japanese soldiers crumpled to the ground, and the others turned tail and ran, a few still shooting wildly.

"That should drive them off," Kayeri murmured as he looked down at the display. Reacting automatically, the factspheres deployed. Individuals zoomed in on the bodies on individual soldiers—and Kayeri instinctively clenched his teeth. The sight was not pretty. Even in the age of tiny bullet wounds and shrapnel, death was still as visceral as it had been for soldiers centuries past. Having detected no life from the bodies, the factsphere adjusted the targeting computer, and their red outlines faded away, marking them as no different from the dirt they lay in.

After all, a human without life is just an aggregation of the same elements that could be found in the dirt. It was heartless, but it was certainly true.

And yet, something at the corner of the screen caught Kayeri's eye.

From the burnt out ruins of the first tank, one red outline still remained.

With a gulp that imbibed equal measures of fear and hope, Kayeri motioned to zoom in.

In the blackened ruins of the tank, almost indistinguishable from the charred armor, a figure outlined in red struggled.

Kayeri's mind was suspiciously blank.

_It must be a mistake. _

_That…that thing can't still be alive._

Even now, a few flickering flames crawled down the length of that…thing that was once a human's blackened arm before dying out.

Kayeri knew his Glasgow's air filtration system was perfectly functional, and yet he swore he could smell the sickeningly sweet smell of charring flesh.

Kayeri felt an unpleasant feeling, as if his stomach was rebelling against him.

_It had to be a mistake_. Any moment now, the factsphere would update and would show that charred figure as nothing but a pile of ash, no different from the intact dead bodies around him, those who could still be recognized as remotely human.

_Any minute now._

Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could almost see that blackened and yet vaguely human form extend a hand towards him as its very fingers crumbled away—

"Kayeri!"

Behind him, Lloyd rolled into view, cannon at the ready, his voice and face conveying his concern.

"Are you alright?!"

"Good kill, Lloyd," Kayeri managed with what he hoped was a smile.

And then Lloyd's expression of relief was immediately replaced with a grim expression. "Kayeri, what are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

For a moment, Lloyd opened his mouth, as if to say something—and then closed it again as D-05 raised its rail cannon.

"Switching to White Phosphorous," Lloyd muttered as his target appeared on Kayeri's screen—the red outlines of the retreating JSDF soldiers.

"Wait, they're already in retreat—" Kayeri started.

"Under the Geneva Convention, they're enemy combatants until they surrender," Lloyd said, his voice emotionless.

"Look, their will is already broken."

Lloyd's voice seemed even, as if unaware that he was talking about killing human beings. "Kayeri, if we let them go here, they may come to kill another Britannian soldier in the future."

"Lloyd—damn it! You guys, don't you have anything to say about it?!"

And then Kayeri was struck by something. With the exception of him and Lloyd, who was currently chambering a new round into his cannon, Kotori, Monica and Captain King had their Assault Rifles in firing position.

With a sinking feeling, Kayeri realized he was the only one who had not fired at those retreating figures.

Logically, what Lloyd said made sense.

And yet, having seen that figure in the tank…

"Round ready!" Reloaded, Lloyd's Glasgow crouched as it adopted firing position.

Kayeri's eyes widened as he realized what Lloyd was about to do. "Lloyd, wait—!"

"Firing!"

With another thundercrack, the giant cannon discharged—and instantly, the retreating soldiers were engulfed in a cloud of white smoke—and, seemingly on their own, Kayeri's hands toggled the Zoom-in function as he watched the faraway figures struggle in the mist.

White Phosphorus had entered the scene of combat ninety years ago, when Sons of Liberty Anarchists deployed White Phosphorus in a series of coordinated attacks on Government Buildings across Britannia. Since then, countless armies, from the Entente of France, Russia and the Republic of England to Imperial Germany to Britannia's very own armies had deployed White Phosphorus, WP shells, as both a smokescreen and an antipersonnel weapon. A WP shell scatters countless incendiary particles of white phosphorus on the target area, coating both the ground and the flesh of those exposed to it.

In many ways White Phosphorous is far more effective a weapon than a flamethrower.

White Phosphorous is sticky and reactive, often bonding to the skin and burning flesh straight to the bone, burning until either there is no more oxygen or the phosphorous itself is consumed.

Moreover, the phosphorus that enters the body through these burns is toxic for the body, leading to liver, heart and kidney damage, or even Multiple Organ failure.

During the Second Great European War, the forces of the early E.U. had used WP with great effect against Soviet infantry.

The Geneva Convention, of course, bans the use of all chemical weapons, whether for toxic or incendiary purposes.

But WP shells are also extraordinarily effective as smokescreens, and under that guise, Britannian forces had been using WP shells for decades. Occasionally, images of the horrific burns inflicted upon Chinese, Vietnamese and even Britannian soldiers by Britannian WP shells surfaced for a short time on the web, only to disappear within hours. It was common knowledge in the military that all three of the great powers used White Phosphorous, among other things, in an unspoken agreement to not blab about each other's human rights violations.

Kayeri had seen some of these pictures—but they seemed almost photoshopped, as some Britannian critics claimed, compared to what he was seeing firsthand.

Through the smoke, figures stumbled here and there, desperately tearing at their bodies in some kind of macabre dance.

Though the WP shell's wall of thick smoke shielded the Knightmare corps from the worst of the shell's effects, the image was still enough to arouse a feeling that disgusted Kayeri.

The image in front of them was as much mesmerizing as it was haunting.

It was like a puppet show performed by somebody with no training in puppetry. In the smoke, the figures of several dozen marionettes jerking to a silent tune.

One by one, they fell to the ground, some of them still twitching.

Kayeri tore his eyes away from the scene to look at the video feed.

Kotori was looking away from the screen, seemingly inspecting something elsewhere, though the way she shivered slightly every time the factsphere deregistered a dead enemy suggested that she was still paying attention. Monica, on the other hand, seemed to still be staring at the screen, her face set and drawn, though she seemed to be doing her best to hold her expression. Captain King seemed to be sweating an awful lot.

Yet, looking at Lloyd…something about the way Lloyd hardly seemed perturbed caused Kayeri to shake slightly.

It wasn't that Lloyd Harkins was expressionless—he looked focused, his brows furrowed. The same expression he had when he met a hard question in a test or was at the shooting range.

The fact that there were human beings in his crosshairs didn't seem to matter to him.

"Target down," Lloyd's voice echoed calmly as his Glasgow unlocked.

And then, before he knew what was doing, Kayeri found himself centering the crosshairs of his assault rifle on Lloyd and D-05.

For a moment, there was silence.

Kotori broke it first. "Kayeri, what are you doing?"

"They were retreating," Kayeri growled at Lloyd.

Lloyd's expression remained unchanged. "They were enemy combatants."

"Brant, stand down," Captain King said slowly.

"They were already in a rout. It wasn't necessary to shoot them."

"Under the Geneva Conven—"

"Under the Geneva Convention, it's illegal to use White Phosphorus as a weapon, Lloyd."

"Lieutenant Brant, Stand Down," Captain King yelled, but neither Lloyd nor Kayeri noticed.

"I was deploying a smokescreen—"

"Don't give me that crap right now," Kayeri heard himself snarling. "You were deploying a White Phosphorous smoke shell in the middle of a group of retreating infantrymen—"

"And you would have me let them go? Let them pick up another gun and then shoot us?"

"They were—"

"Yes, they were retreating. They were afraid. But what happens when they return to their headquarters? Leave with another Panzer-Wulf, one with better aim? If one of them returned with an AT4 and killed Kotori? Or Monica? Or the Captain? Would I forgive myself for not pulling the trigger? Would YOU forgive me?"

"But—" Kayeri started—even as he knew Lloyd was right.

"I understand that they were retreating," Lloyd said levelly, "but I'd much rather kill them than run the chance that my mercy allows one of them to kill you."

With that, Lloyd shouldered his cannon as he revved his engine.

"Monica, lead on."

"O-of course," Monica replied. For a moment, she took a look at Kayeri before driving ahead.

Kotori glanced at Lloyd, and then at Kayeri. Her expression was complicated. Kayeri could understood why. By pointing a weapon at his comrade, he had essentially earned a court-martial. It was certainly an offense that could lead to a dishonorable discharge, and disgrace for Kayeri's family.

"Captain King, Lieutenant Brant may be under some stress right now. I believe it might be necessary that he return to base—"

"—That would be my decision," Captain King replied. "Go on ahead, Talasi."

For a moment, Kotori seemed on the border of disagreeing, but finally she revved Awatovi into action and drove off, leaving Kayeri and Captain King in the clearing.

"…Brant, do you want to return to the beachhead? I will say that were suffering from nausea."

"…I'll be fine," Kayeri said quietly.

"That was…quite something, wasn't it," the Captain remarked with a delicate tone.

Kayeri said nothing. It was hard to refer to what he had seen as "quite something."

"As you know," Captain King sighed, "I used to be Air Force. I never got to see what was happening on the ground. For us Fighter Jocks, the only thing mattered was the blue sky and the people who were trying to shoot us in that blue sky.

When we fought them, we shot them down and tried not to think about how they bought the farm (Author's note: Died).

By the time we got down, the ground pounders either moved forwards or they didn't.

That…that was my first time seeing something like that too."

On the spot, Captain King shuddered.

"But, Brant, that's how it is. Back when we were all civvies, it was the military that did the dirty work. When I was in the Air Force, it was the Army. 'Those who abjure violence can only do so because others are committing violence on their behalf' (Author's Note: George Orwell. The quote you're probably thinking of is a misquotation).

People have always been getting their hands bloody.

It's just that this time we are the ones who are doing it. It's not an easy job, nor is it one that's noble, no matter what anyone says. But it's necessary.

We have do the dirty work so that those we know won't have to."

Captain King sighed. "I won't bring up this incident to higher command. But I do not want to see this happen again. Are we clear?"

"…Yes, sir," Kayeri replied emotionlessly.

"Good. Do you need some time before catching up with us?"

"…It's fine. Let's go."

* * *

><p>The first thing that Josui Kusakabe felt as he regained consciousness was the tightness in his chest. Coughing raspily, Kusakabe caught a whiff of what smelled like garlic (Author's note: White Phosphorus smells like Garlic).<p>

The second was the silence.

He opened his eyes—and instantly blinked to get the ears out of them. Above him, the blue sky was marred by columns of black, white and gray smoke, imparting a sooty, dirty quality onto the pure blue sky.

A few flashes of what had happened came back to him. One of the shots from those robots' oversized assault rifles had knocked him into the trees.

But the silence meant the battle was over.

Had they won? Had they lost?

With another cough, Kusakabe propped himself up.

The smell of smoke now mixed itself to the smell of garlic. The sudden change in stance caused a wave of nausea to wash over Kusakabe.

As his vision started to return, Kusakabe noticed the dark shapes all around him, obscured by fumes of white smoke that seemed to arise from the very earth.

With an effort he started to crawl out of the trees—and then suddenly snapped his hand back with a yelp of pain as he touched something. Holding up his palm, he looked at what looked like a small piece of white chalk that seemed to smolder in the air. With an effort, he ripped off his gloves and threw them aside.

As he looked around, he realized that much of the smoke came from similar particles.

Blinking through the smoke, he crawled towards the next human shape.

A JSDF BDU. That was reassuring. Crawling over, he grabbed the other soldier's shoulder.

"Soldier, are you alright?"

And then he immediately let go as the body turned over, revealing the face of the other soldier.

What had been a face.

The face was a sickly, mottled white, spotted by a few bits of darkened skin. One eye seemed to stare madly, its clarity so much more striking compared to the black-and-white wreck that occupied the other socket. The scalp was dotted by tufts of darkened, burnt hair and scalp, pieces of darkened skin peeling slightly, like old wallpaper.

Recoiling in horror, Kusakabe scrambled back, to his feet—and then stared.

All around him, some still smoking, were other bodies. All in what remained of Japanese BDUs.

Slowly, Kusakabe stood up.

He was not in a battlefield.

He was in a crematorium.

Kusakabe clenched his shaking fist—the one that had been burned by the Phosphorus. It hurt, but he didn't care. In fact, it made him feel stronger. Britannia would pay for this.

For every one of his comrades, Kusakabe would make Britannia pay four times over.

Raising his fist towards the sky, Kusakabe silently made his vow before starting the slow trek back to headquarters.

* * *

><p>The other three pilots were waiting for them as they left the clearing and continued along the road.<p>

Captain King broke the slightly awkward silence first. "Talasi, anything happen?"

"Nothing so far. It seems like somebody in 2nd Squadron's C troop got hit with an anti-tank weapon, but they're still functional. We're just awaiting orders now—"

At that moment, the radio came to life.

"Attention Knightmare Corps, this is Empire Actual. All Knightmares are hereby ordered to continue the assault towards Kochi. Be advised, enemy reinforcements are on their way towards Shikoku. It is imperative that we take Kochi as a landing point. All pilots, please confirm."

"D troop, confirmed," Captain King reported as he glanced at the other team members. "You heard the man, D-troop. We're moving in."

"Leading," Kayeri said as he rolled past the Captain and the others.

Lloyd opened his mouth—and then closed it, and then finally opened it again. "Kayeri, I'm sorry for what I said earlier. That was irresponsible of me—"

"Nah," Kayeri replied with a grin that took the rest of the team by surprise, "you were right. I wasn't thinking of the team when I did that."

Lloyd opened his mouth to interject. "Kayeri—"

"I'm fine, mom," Kayeri remarked with a smile. "We have a job, don't we?"

Lloyd still looked inclined to object as he returned to his controls.

Kayeri relaxed himself as Lloyd turned his attention to the controls.

They would be riding out again. To fight more battles. To kill more people.

_I just need to finish this battle, right?_

He and the rest of the unit were still, after all, on a battlefield.

He would have time to worry when this battle was over.

Clenching his teeth, Kayeri Joseph Brant gunned the engine of his Glasgow as he charged towards the outskirts of the coastal city of Kochi.

* * *

><p><strong>Hokkaido<strong>

"Imperator to Bowflex Extreme, maintain forward advance to approximately point 4-2, eyes open."

"Solid copy, Imperator, advancing to 4-2 with infantry. Out."

"Maintain position, Gremlin, keep in position and keep your eyes open."

"Yes, mother, we copy."

Silently—or, as silently as the 1800-hp M33 Clinton could manage, callsign Bowflex Extreme rumbled through the forest. Atop the turret, Major Andreas Darlton leaned on the .50 nearby. Though the M33 had an air circulation system, it was far more comfortable—if far more dangerous—up top.

"Anything on visual?"

"Nothing."

From a few hundred meters off, Gremlin was also searching for remnants of the JSDF's Northern Army. Most of them had apparently withdrawn, but with most of the army's Drones brought down, it was up to the army to manually clear out the forest.

It was, at least, relaxing work. They had met little resistance so far, though here and there were signs of the retreat—a few dropped weapons and ordinance and the odd bootprints.

"Exciting," remarked Kevin, the driver, sardonically.

"All quiet on the western front," muttered Joseph, the loader.

"The Silence of the Lambs," said Nick, the gunner.

"Shut up down there," snapped Darlton.

After a long period of silence, Kevin spoke up again. "But shiiiit…talk about crazy."

"What?"

"Those robots."

"They're called Knightmares," Joe corrected.

"Never seen anything like it," Nick stated as he leaned back.

Darlton said nothing. After all, he was the only one of the unit who had seen those things, three years ago in Nevada. They had not witness two of them devastate two units of M-1s and M-33s. Since that day, Darlton had known, waited for the day where he and the armored corps would suddenly find itself obsolete.

The moment he had seen those bat-shaped landers fly overhead this morning, he had already known that the day had come.

* * *

><p>"Target destroyed."<p>

Major Gilbert G.P. Guilford's Glasgow ground to a halt as the last of the Japanese tanks burst into flame, its debris cutting darkened scars into the snowy ground.

With this roadblock down, the Britannian Northern Expeditionary Force had a clear beachhead. While Honshu, Shikoku and Kyushu were currently enjoying an unusually warm spring thaw, Hokkaido was suffering from a cold front that had left its barren, somewhat rocky coastline covered in a thick layer of snow.

The fighting had been fierce—one of Guilford A-troop glasgows had been struck by a stray anti-materiel rifle, and had been forced to return to the beachhead, and the infantry and tank corps had their share of casualties. However, the mobility of the Knightmare Corps and the neutralization of the Japanese Air Force by the Sakuradite disturbers had eventually prevailed, and the first wave was now solidifying its hold on the landing zone.

"Imperator, this is A troop, landing zone secure."

"A troop, this is Imperator Actual. Good job, stand by. Wait for the Army and Engineering to dig in."

"Copy, thanks for the break."

"Imperator, out."

As Imperator terminated the connection, Guilford glanced at the video feeds of the remaining three pilots in his unit.

"You heard the man. We're on break until the Engineers are here to set up a roadblock."

"About time," Lieutenant Ericsson grunted as he set down his rail cannon. For all his lanky, greasy looks and sullen expression, he was quite skilled with the cannon.

With a hiss, one of Team A's glasgows opened its cockpit with a hydraulic hiss. With a casual toss of his overly long and unnecessarily luscious hair, Lieutenant Lynch, the communications officer and Mechanic, stretched himself with an indulgent smile.

"Sooo, Major, what happens now?"

"The second wave is clear to deploy," 1st Lieutenant Cornelia li Britannia replied.

"I wasn't asking you, your highness," Lynch snapped with a hint of annoyance.

"The Lieutenant is right," Guilford cut in, "Once this area is secured, second wave deploys with us. We want to try to block all access to the Seikan tunnel before retreating Japs or their reinforcement can use it."

"Oh, I see. Thanks a bunch, Major," Lynch replied with a bright smile. Something about Lieutenant Aiden Lynch's strikingly handsome and effeminate features and the way he seemed constantly annoyed by Cornelia, the only female in A troop, unnerved Guilford, but not enough for him to do anything about it. After all, Lynch's skill with the Machine Pistol and technical skill said far more to Guilford than a few pings on his gaydar.

At that moment, a new blip caused Lynch to turn his eyes to his own readout. "Oh, here comes second wave," he announced cheerfully.

"2nd Squadron G-troop, here to wipe your baby asses clean," Captain and Lord Richard Clifton proclaimed loudly the moment his radio connected.

"Well, he IS an asswipe," Lieutenant Ericsson mused on the unit's private channel.

"I see you men made a mess of this landing," Captain Clifton noted as he glanced down at the wreckage.

Guilford sighed. If there was one knightmare troop that he didn't want with him, it was Captain Clifton's. The eldest son of a long line of military men-turned-nobles, Lord Richard Clifton had all his ancestor's combat skill and none of their political tact. The man seemed to have become convinced that his G troop was the saving grace of the 2nd Squadron.

"Captain, I'm having Lieutenant Lynch send you your landing coordinates. The enemy is retreating, Imperator has orders for us to stay put until the landing zone is fortified."

Captain Clifton seemed to be going through the readout of his orders. "We're not going to pursue them?"

"We risk overextending before we've secured our own territory," Guilford explained. "If the Japanese were to launch a counteroffensive, our lines may break as they are."

Clifton, though, frowned. "But our goal is the Seikan tunnel. If we delay, the enemy may be able to consolidate their hold on the bridge."

Guilford shook his head. "You may be correct, but until we land sufficient armor, supplies, troops and artillery, we will not be able to hold that area with knightmares alone. Our Glasgows are not well-suited for defense."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Clifton replied with a grin.

Guilford tried to hide his anger. "…you are disregarding direct orders?"

"_Ad Meritum Justificatus_," Clifton remarked—as Guilford expected. The Britannian Military is a meritocracy—those who perform great deeds or show exemplary performance are rapidly recognized and then funneled into fast-tracks to command roles. By most extents, it was a good system that employed each individual soldier to the best of his or her ability.

Yet the most troublesome result of this system of Meritocracy was _Ad Meritum Justificatus_, justification by merit.

Throughout history, individuals have turned defeats into victories through disobeying orders made by misinformed or unintelligent commanders. Soldiers on the ground often are far more aware of the realities on the ground, and are most capable of resisting sudden changes.

In the interest of promoting personal initiative and encouraging bravery, the Britannian policy of _Ad Meritum Justificatus_ dictates that a soldier who would normally be court-martialled for insubordination may be vindicated (or even rewarded) if their actions helped prevent disaster or helped achieve strategic goals.

On the bright side, it encouraged personal initiative and helped identify potential officer material in the regular ranks when the results were positives.

On the other hand, it also led individuals who overestimated their abilities to disobey orders and damage discipline.

Like right now.

"I assume my orders not to will do nothing to change your decision?"

"Afraid not," Clifton grinned.

"…Then I wish you success." As Guilford terminated the communication, he brought up the rest of his unit. "All units, stay alert, be prepared to move on my orders."

All the members of his unit seemed surprised. Cornelia spoke first.

"Sir, are we going to assist Captain Clifton?"

"If he requires it, your majest—lieutenant."

Cornelia's expression didn't alter. "In my opinion, sir, the concept of _Ad Meritum Justificatus_ implies the willingness to take responsibility for your actions should they be unsuccessful. I believe it would be better to allow them to die to strengthen discipline."

Guilford shivered slightly. For all her dedication, skill and good conduct, Cornelia could be merciless.

"That may be, but the loss of five Glasgows and five skilled pilots to the enemy would be too risky for the army as a whole." For all of Lord Richard Clifton's flaws, he had survived the knightmare corp's stringent training process, and the fact that he was a Captain demonstrated that he was a man who was, at the very least, a little more than competent.

"I'm glad I'm in your squad, Major," Lynch noted. "Captain Clifton might have his charms, but he's just not my type."

_And I am?_ Grimacing, Guilford looked up the sky. In front of them, the five Knightmare VTOLs of Captain Clifton and G troop hovered, a little too close to the trees for safety. On the tactical map, they were reaching the limits of the Army's advance. Following the Knightmare Corp's assault, the Army and its tanks had gone ahead in order to clear the forests of infantry.

On the tactical map, it seemed that the five triangles that represented the Knightmares had now flown past the perimeter of Britannian mechanized and armor that was slowly combing the woods.

"They're going directly for the road," Cornelia noted. It made sense—forests went a long way in reducing a knightmare's maneuverability—knightmare deployment was optimal on open roads or fields. If they could get to the highway across the woods.

With a blip, a new circle expanded from one of G-troop's knightmares, G-02, belonging to 1st Lieutenant DuBois, the communications officer, indicating the activation of a factsphere.

Shapes appeared and disappeared in the extra area as the factsphere registered potential enemies or deregistered objects it no longer saw as a threat.

And then, suddenly, a red blip.

"Shit," Lynch breathed.

Almost immediately, a white contrail shot through the sky with a hiss—the spiral of an anti-tank rocket.

And then, with the whine of chainsaws, the air was filled with tracers.

"That's anti-air," Lynch shouted in panic. Guilford grimaced. Lynch could be forgiven for his worry. The Knightmare VTOL lacked the speed of a fighter and the armor of a bomber. For an anti-aircraft gun designed to track fighter and bring down bombers, it was the perfect meal.

G Troop, it seemed, was in a panic. Dubois, the Communications officer, and another pilot designated as G-04, 2nd Lieutenant Vicks, seemed to be retreating, even as Captain Clifton seemed to be moving forwards.

"Lynch, connect me with G troop's channel," Guilford snapped. The moment the radio connected, the cockpit was filled with panicked voices.

"DuBois, get back here, you coward!"

"Captain, get back! The LZ is way too hot!"

"Not you too, Vicks," Captain Clifton roared. "Land with me and we'll smoke that AA!"

Guilord scanned the map with dismay. To land there would be to descend in the middle of the woods—possibly the worst terrain for a knightmare.

"Captain Clifton, this is Major Guilford. Withdraw to the safe zone with your men! That's an order!"

Clifton's voice carried more than a hint of fear as he retorted. "I'll face a court-martial if I return now—"

"You'll face an even bigger one if you lose your Knightmare too," Guilford almost shouted into the screen. It was a wonder that none of the VTOLs had been brought down yet.

"I…" the uncertainty and fear in Captain Clifton's face was palpable, the fear of the gambler watching his winnings drain away before his eyes.

"I will not court-martial you if you retreat now," Guilford declared.

That reassurance seemed to do the trick. Clifton stared regretfully once more before turning to the radio. "All units, turn around! Fall Back!"

Not that he needed to say it. With the exception of G-03, the rest of the unit was already falling back, Lieutenant DuBois' VTOL smoking.

Guilford turned to Lynch. "Do you still have the location of the Anti-air?"

"I have the approximate location from Dubois' earlier scan, Sir," Lynch replied as he checked his screen.

"Alright, we need to get rid of the Anti air," Guilford began. However, his orders were interrupted by a gout of dirty flame that erupted in the sky. With a plume of smoke, one of the VTOLs started to drop.

The radio was suddenly filled with G troop's voices.

"Blake, pull up!"

"Can't do," a female voice replied with barely concealed panic, "engines are down. Losing altitude."

"Can you eject?!" Guilford grimaced. That would be essentially giving up on the knightmare and handing it over to the enemy.

"Lieutenant, Blake, deploy your Glasgow," Guilford barked as he watched the descending. The Glasgow's legs were built to withstand a huge amount of stress—and, even if it didn't, it would cushion the crash's impact on the cockpit.

"Acknowledged, deploying…losing altitude fast, guys."

With a groan, the wounded VTOL painfully came to life as it began loosening the umbilical wires that connected the Glasgow with its frame.

And then, abruptly, another, smaller explosion blossomed from the VTOL.

"Going down," Blake reported grimly. That last explosion seemed to have been too much for the transport craft, and, with a slow whine, the VTOL descended to the ground, its engines still valiantly trying to keep its charge aloft.

Guilford glared at the screen as, with a burst of dust, Blake and her Glasgow disappeared into the trees.

No "signal Lost" or "ejected" readout appeared a minor consolation. That meant that the Glasgow had not been destroyed in the crash. But now it had descended in hostile terrain in enemy territory—G-03s troubles were not over yet.

"Lieutenant Blake, respond!"

Static.

Guilford turned to Lieutenant Lynch. "Status report on G-03, Lynch!"

Typing furiously into his screen, Lynch checked the readout as his knightmare sent an electronic inquiry to G-03.

"Damage Report: some damage to the legs, but not much else. G-03 should still be operational.

Guilford tried one more time. "2nd Lieutenant Annabel Blake, respond!"

Nothing.

"Maybe her radio is down," Ericsson suggested.

"Then she would be able to shoot a flare or signal otherwise," Guilford responded as he took a quick glance of the state of his Glasgow. Except for a few rounds from a sniper that had dented the armor in an attempt to take a crack at the pilot, A-01 was functioning well.

Flipping open the plastic cap that covered the aiming yoke, Guilford disengaged the safety on his assault rifle.

Ericsson blinked. "Sir, you're going out?"

"Damn right," Guilford responded coolly as he checked the ammunition in his rifle. He had enough. "We have to get rid of that AA before it takes out the rest of G troops, and we have to bring back Lieutenant Blake."

"…But we were ordered to hold this area," Lynch interrupted uncomfortably.

"_Ad Meritum Justificatus_," Guilford responded as he readied his knightmare, not without a shred of irony. "If we stay put we might lose the rest of G-troop." He turned to Cornelia and the others. "You men stay put and move out as soon as the Engineers get here."

Without waiting for a confirmation, A-01 drove towards the forest.

* * *

><p>"Do we have a visual on the AA?"<p>

"Negative. Gremlin is also on the way."

"Oy, Major, take a look at this," Kevin the driver remarked as he pointed at the M-33's screen, to where the face of a bespectacled man in a strange uniform and cockpit filled the screen.

"To all call-signs in the vicinity. This is Major Gilbert G.P. Guilford of the 2nd Squadron of the Knightmare Corps. Does anyone copy?"

Andreas Darlton leaned over. "Patch me in," he murmured. "Major, this is Major Andreas Darlton of the 2nd Armored Division, Call sign Bowflex Extreme. What can we do?"

The relief on Major Guilford's face was palpable. "Major Darlton, one of my men has gone down near your position."

Darlton blinked. "One of your…erm, Knightmares?"

"Afraid so, Major. Are you in a position to assist?"

Andreas nodded. "We're ready for battle, but the Anti-air…"

"We'll deal with the anti-air," Guilford reassured. "Can you do it?"

Darlton turned towards his crew, all three of whom were staring at him.

"Why not," Nick shrugged.

"I don't mind," Joe remarked.

"Could be worse," Kevin sighed.

"We'll do it," Darlton said. "Send us the coordinates."

* * *

><p>With quick swerves and skids, the two Glasgow weaved a path through the trees, snapping leaves and branches as they went.<p>

"I thought I told you to stay and wait for the engineers with the others," Major Guilford remarked as he glanced at Lieutenant Cornelia li Britannia's Glasgow next to him.

"_Ad Meritum Justificatus_," Cornelia replied curtly. Guilford scowled. That term was getting way too much mileage today.

In front of them, a red cursor appeared in the distance, a marking for the last known location of the anti-air emplacement.

Guilford chewed his lip contemplatively.

The presence of the AA was worrying. No general worth his salt would risk placing an anti-air emplacement in the middle of nowhere. There would probably be either armored or infantry support present.

Not that it made sense to put Anti-aircraft guns and infantry support in the middle of a forest. Meaning—

"Major, heads up!"

In the nick of time, Guilford slammed the control yoke as, with a rush of wind, the invisible but perceptible shockwave of an artillery shell shot past his head.

Immediately, Guilford's Glasgow grabbed a cylindrical object on his knightmare's side. Typing a quick activation command, he hurled it at the air.

Instantly glowing, the prototype Chaos Mine activated, a string of chemical reactions rushing through the air burst grenade's cylindrical frame before expelling itself as a focused blast of shrapnel at the ground, driving up a cloud of dust and smoke.

Immediately spreading his glasgow's stance, Guilford swerved to the side as he toggled the glasgow's factsphere.

Hidden in the prototype's smoke, Guilford relaxed slightly as his Factsphere glared through the smoke at the enemies on the other side.

That had been way too close. It seemed like the enemy had been waiting for them, to be able to accurately place a shot on a moving knightmare.

As the factsphere processed the data it had gathered, red silhouettes registered and appeared over the screen—the outlines of infantrymen, tanks and APCs.

It seemed that the Japanese had been ready.

_Luring us into the forest…_it was certainly a good plan.

The Glasgows would not be able to maneuver to the best of their ability in the forest.

"Tanks ahead," Guilford warned as Cornelia drew close.

Cornelia glanced at Guilford. "Orders, Sir?" The Chaos Mine continued to spray shrapnel, but its load was almost completely exhausted. Once it was out, the knightmares would be once again facing multiple tanks and infantrymen.

Guilford glanced to the left or the right. The right tactical decision would be to withdraw right now—he and Cornelia would be facing multiple enemies in unfriendly terrain.

Yet, looking at the sky, the Anti-air was still booming its defiance.

Ultimately, they would have to take down that anti-air gun eventually.

Yet how would they move? Left? Right? Back? Stand still?

"Why not forwards?"

Guilford looked up.

"Your Highness?"

"Why not forwards?" Cornelia repeated. "Isn't that what the Empress did on that day?"

Guilford blinked. That day seemed so long ago—that day when, a young cadet of the Army's Armored Division, he had watched the Flash weave destruction among the M-33s he had dreamed would be the future of warfare.

On that day, the two Glasgow had come out unscathed, the tanks smeared with the paint that indicated a hit home.

But on that day there had been no live ammunition, no chance of death.

To do this now…

As if sensing his hesitation, Cornelia frowned. "Sir, are you afraid?"

Ignoring the near-insubordination of the question, Guilford sighed.

"I would rather not take a subordinate with me to my death."

"What about an equal?"

"Just as bad."

Cornelia sighed. "What about your superior, Sir? Would you trust your superior?"

Guilford grimaced, slightly irritated. Time was running out. Guilford turned towards the tactical map.

"Depends on the superior."

"I, Cornelia li Britannia, 2nd Princess of the Holy Empire of Britannia, hereby dub you, Gilbert G. P. Guilford, as my knight and retainer."

Guilford's head snapped around. As always, there was not a trace of hesitation or confusion on the Princess-turned-soldier(and now soldier-turned-Princess)'s face.

"May you bear my banner and arms in my name. May you fight with Honor and serve with humility."

Guilford stared in disbelief. Legally, every member of the Imperial Family had the right to appoint a Knight of Honor as their personal protector and representative. The policy itself was a nod to Sir Richard Hector and Duke Ricardo von Britannia, the first of the Britannia Line of Emperors that followed the forced abdication of Queen Elizabeth III by Scottish Revolutionaries in what the EU call the "English Revolution" and what the Britannians know as the "Humiliation of Edinburgh".

Following Ricardo I's ascension as the Emperor of Britannia, he had named Sir Hector the Knight of One, his personal knight—and since then, every imperial son and daughter was entitled to a knight.

Yet in reality the system was fraught with unspoken rules, a system of interviews, bureaucracy (and, at times, bribery and nepotism)—the power accorded to a personal knight meant that the position was frequently used as political currency. At the end of the day, the choice came down to one or two handpicked candidates carefully evaluated through a system of political favors, interviews, questionnaires and practice fights.

It was almost unheard for a princess to spontaneously announce a candidate.

"Rise, as Sir Guilford."

"Your Highness—" Guilford choked.

Cornelia almost looked as if she were pleased with herself.

"Can you trust this superior with your life, Sir Guilford?"

Guilford opened and closed his mouth silently like a puppeteer that never learned ventriloquism.

He recanted on what he had said about her in comparison to the other Nobles.

Cornelia li Britannia was no less capricious or presumptuous than the other spoiled princes and princesses of the realm.

She was just presumptuous at the very worst times.

And, somehow, Guilford realized, he didn't mind.

"Yes, your highness," Gilbert G.P. Guilford said slowly.

Cornelia looked a little surprised, and yet a little pleased.

"In that case, I order you, my knight, to destroy the enemies before us."

The Chaos Mine had almost exhausted itself, just in time. Crouching for the charge, Guilford made a short salute, putting his fist towards his shoulder as he smiled.

"Yes, your highness!"

* * *

><p>"100 meters to target," the voice of callsign Gremlin's commander, Mark Karius, said calmly.<p>

Andreas Darlton checked the screen of Bowflex Extreme's "cockpit," monitoring the triangle in front of them diagnosed as M-1 Gremlin. "Any visual?"

"I think I see something ahead. Yeah, it looks like the…what do you call it, Knightmare. No activity."

Darlton checked the tactical map. Some distance away, two other different-colored triangles designated A-01 and A-02 were flashing red, along with what looked like the indicator of enemy units. It seemed like Major Guilford had ran into problems. It seemed the Anti-air had been adequately defended.

"Gremlin, do you guys see anything suspicious?"

"Apart from the giant robot and a burning robot plane? No, nothing."

Darlton's eyed narrowed. The protection around the AA suggested it had not been haphazardly left behind in the JSDF's retreat—more that it had been strategically placed there.

Meaning there could be more units in the forest.

"Hang back, Karius. Keep us covered."

"As you wish, Darlton."

"Move up," Darlton ordered Kevin. While Karius' M-1 was still a formidable weapon, the M-33 was a straight upgrade. If anyone came under attack, better it be Bowflex Extreme than Gremlin.

Grinding the snow underneath, the M-33 drove into a clearing—or, rather, a clearing that had been made by the Knightmare VTOL's crash landing.

The crash landing VTOL seemed to have carved a blackened scar through the forest, leaving shattered and splintered poplars and apricot trees in its wake. Some kind of liquid was dripping out of several holes in the module of the smoking VTOL, staining the snow around it.

And, crouched in a pose of exhaustion that seemed almost human, was the robot that Andreas Darlton had last seen in Nevada.

Even now, slumped in exhaustion, the Knightmare Frame looked magnificent, like a lion caught in slumber.

Darlton looked around. The sensor on the M-33 didn't detect anything out of the ordinary. Satisfied, Darlton grabbed the FN P90 that hung on the walls of the M-33 as he put a headset on his head. "Watch the house while I'm gone, kids."

"You going out?"

"What, scared of being home alone?"

"Don't get yourself killed," Joe retorted as Darlton fiddled with the hatch.

The crisp winter air caused Darlton to involuntarily shiver as he landed in the snow. After all that sitting and crouching, Darlton's knees and back ached in a welcoming way. Though the soft crackling of the fires on the VTOL and the distant sound of artillery and small arms fire hung in the background, the only thing Darlton really heard was the crunching of the snow underneath him as he slowly walked towards the Knightmare.

Darlton tapped his headset. "Kevin, can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Major," Kevin's voice returned.

"Alright, patch me through to Major Guilford."

"Yessir."

A moment later, the distant sound of gunfire filled the headset.

"Major Darlton?"

"Major, we've found your Knightmare. How are things goings on your end?"

"Could be better," Guilford responded. "But nevermind that, do you see any visible damage on the Knightmare?"

"It looks a little tired, but it'll be fine," Darlton replied as he put a hand on the Glasgow. Though a few streaked suggested damage from small-arms fire, the Glasgow's armor seemed almost like an actual knight's armor.

Guilford sounded slightly exasperated. "What is 'a little tired' supposed to mean?"

"It's crouched and unmoving," Darlton clarified.

On the other line, Guilford seemed to be yelling something to someone else in the background. A few moments later, Guilford spoke again.

"my apologies, Major, how is it?"

"It's crouched and unmoving."

"Are its feet still on the ground?"

Darlton glanced at the Knightmare Frame. Both of its wheeled feet seemed to be in contact with the ground. "Looks like it," he responded.

"…Then it should be able to deploy," Darlton heard Guilford mutter. "Major, I'm going to try to activate the remote ejection system. Please climb in and see if she is alright."

With an electronic beep, something moved inside the Knightmare frame. A second later, its back seemed to open up, the back shooting backwards to reveal a seat—and a prone figure slumped on it. Sighing, Darlton grabbed onto a piece of the Knightmare Frame's and started pulling himself up.

Kevin's voice suddenly intruded. "Commander."

"Kind of busy," Darlton grunted as he slowly yanked himself farther up the Knightmare Frame's leg.

"Sensor's picking something up in the woods. We need you back on the tank."

"As soon as I'm done with this," Darlton growled as, with a huff, he swung himself onto the shoulder of the Knightmare Frame.

"Commander…"

"Shut up, Kevin," Darlton snapped as he surveyed the pilot's seat.

Slumped on the seat was a young, rather mousy-haired woman. Her uniform covered what looked like a rather tight wetsuit, and one of her arms seemed twisted in an abnormal angle. Her eyes were closed, her face contorted in a pained expression.

What caught Darlton's eye, though, was the blood that slowly dripped from a jagged gash on the woman's forehead. Leaning over, Darlton quickly grabbed the woman's brewrist. He was slightly relieved to feel the light, systematic throbbing of a heartbeat.

"Major, the pilot is wounded, but alive," Darlton reported into his headpiece.

Darlton caught what seemed like a trace of relief in Major Guilford's voice. "Alright, can you activate the video communications? It should be on your lower right. Don't click anything else."

Darlton took a look inside the cockpit. Unlike the (still somewhat well-lighted) cockpit of the M-33, the inside of the Knightmare Frame may as well have been in the open. Multiple projection screens showed various figures, schematics, and maps, with the front dominated by a full-sized view of the area ahead.

Finding the appropriate key, Darlton clicked it—and, instantly, a window opened on the edges of the screen. In it, Major Guilford looked pleased.

"Well done, Major. We are heading for your location shortly. Hold your position until we arrive. Don't touch anything."

"Of course," Darlton replied. "ETA?"

"Should be a few minutes. We'll see you soon. Guilford, out."

As the video screen folded itself out of existence, Darlton took another look around the cockpit. On closer inspection, the cockpit of the knightmare didn't seem all that different from the M-33's futuristic cockpit—the display itself, while advanced, seemed to be of similar build to the M-33's smaller cockpit version.

"Commander…"

"I'll be down in a second," Darlton snapped as he examined the viewscreen.

The screen, too, seemed very similar, if also more advanced. Onscreen, Darlton's M-33 had already been identified and marked as a friendly with a green outline, a separate information line denoting Bowflex Extreme as its callsign. Behind it, Gremlin had also been identified. And, in the forest, outlined in red—

"Commander, Hostiles! One o'clock!"

Instinctively, Darlton ducked—just as he heard the whine of a bullet.

Snapping the safety off his P90, Darlton leaned around the cockpit cavity to squeeze a burst of gunfire at the sniper—and then snapped it back as he was answered by a hail of bullets. Reaching out, he dragged the unconscious Knightmare Corps pilot into the cockpit as he glanced at the kngihtmare frame's viewscreen.

"Multiple hostiles, small arms, and vehicles," Kevin reported.

"Weapons free, fire at will," Darlton replied as he took a quick peek out of the cockpit before he looked around the console.

With a thunderous roar, Bowflex Extreme fired its cannon, sending an explosion into the woods and sending a few red figures flying. Just as suddenly, a blast of flame popped into existence near the M-33's armor.

"RPG intercepted," Kevin reported with a sigh of relief. In the background, he could hear "Main gun, ready!" from Joe.

"Gremlin, engaging," Karius' voice added as the M-1joined the battle with a blast of its own main gun.

"Target down! Seems to be just infantry," Karius reported. "Moving up!"

Just then, a new red blip appeared that caused Darlton to turn white.

"STOP," He nearly yelled—just as, with a roar, the Japanese Mitsubishi Type-10 opened fire with its main gun.

With the scream of twisting metal, Gremlin contorted as if struck by a piledriver.

* * *

><p>"Damn," Major-turned Knight Gilbert G.P. Guilford muttered as he glanced at the tactical map. It seemed that Major Darlton's armored forces were now under attack.<p>

"Another advance force?"

With a contemptuous kick, Lieutenant-turned Princess Cornelia li Britannia kicked away a crumpled piece of metal that was all that remained of a JSDF Type 87 self-propelled anti-aircraft gun's turret.

The fight had been difficult, but Cornelia and Guilford had gotten through it more or less unscathed. The same couldn't be said of the JSDF forces that had tried to stop them.

"…maybe," Guilford muttered. "We need to assist them. We put two tanks up against an unknown force."

Cornelia nodded. "Fair enough. Let's move—"

And then the trees around her simply exploded.

Or at least it looked like it. Shards of wood chips bounced off Guilford's factspheres, causing the screen to flicker dangerously. With its armor plating retracted, the factsphere could be exponentially more sensitive—but also exposed it to damage.

"Hostile, ten o'clock," Guilford yelled as he raised his assault rifle to his shoulder and fired a burst of anti-tank ammunition.

Yet, the bulky shape that rolled through the smoke seemed unperturbed by that ammunition.

On the screen, the factspheres quickly made a comparison and then identified the vehicle.

Krupp Ironworks Panzer-Wulf, JSDF Model.

The European Union's newest heavy tank, said to be more than a match even for the M-33, Britannia's heavy tank.

"Major?"

Guilford blinked as a new voice filled his ear—a voice he recognized (with a bit of irritation) as that of Lieutenant Lynch.

"I'm kind of busy right now, Lynch."

"I'd suggest you withdraw now. According to reports from the 3rd Squadron, those things aren't affected by our assault rifles."

"So what kills it?"

A moment later, Lynch sighed resignedly.

"It annoys me to say this…but we don't know yet."

Guilford gritted his teeth.

When it rains, it pours.

* * *

><p>"Bailing out! Bailing Out!"<p>

With a panicked leap, the Gremlin's crew landed awkwardly on the ground. "We're going to blow! Move back! Move back," Lieutenant Mark Karius yelled as he leapt down, firing wildly with his own P90.

On the screen, Gremlin's crew were running towards the cover of Bowflex Extreme, which itself was desperately trying to intercept the countless anti-tank weapon that were now streaming its way.

In silent horror, Andreas Darlton could only stare as one of the crew crumpled, struck by the hail of gunfire that, somewhat miraculously, missed the rest of the crew.

A second crewman turned around.

Karius' voice filled the radio. "Walker!"

"No, leave him," Darlton yelled—but a moment too late, as Walker fell to the ground, his limbs jerking like a broken puppet.

Andreas Darlton was not a crude man—but, with a curse, he punched the wall in frustration. Stuck in the cockpit of a machine he had been forbidden to pilot, Darlton had never before felt so powerless.

With a punch to the console, Darlton glared at Guilford's video feed.

"Major Guilford, ETA?"

Unfortunately, Guilford, too, seemed distraught. "We are on our way! We've been held up—"

"My men are dying here," Darlton breathed, trying his best to hold his temper. Glancing at the screen, Darlton could see Karius' men shooting from around Bowflex Extreme, which appeared to have sustained some damage to its mobility. Red figures were slowly inching around them, opening fire with their own rifle fire. At this rate, Bowflex and Gremlin's crew would be overrun—

"We are under fire too," Guilford responded helplessly. Pausing, he yelled something at another screen. "Your highness, watch out—"

Turning back to the screen, Guilford looked desperate. "Major Darlton, please hold until we arrive."

"…No promises," Darlton replied as he glanced at the controls of the cockpit.

_Maybe…_

No, that was a bad idea. He had never had any experience piloting this machine. It could well be completely different from the piloting of the M-33.

_It's the only way._

Darlton reached for what he thought was the control yoke—and then stopped.

Could he do this?

Was it right to this? He would be breaking orders and likely regulations doing this.

He took one more glance at Bowflex Extreme.

Inside were his men—Joseph, with his country singer girlfriend, Kevin, with his young son—Nicholas, with his shitt—feminine music.

And, outside, were Karius and his men—certainly, he didn't know any of them except Karius very well—but they were good men.

When it came down to it—

Andreas Darlton's hands tightened on the control yoke as he depressed the hatch button. Instantly, the cockpit snapped in, the seat almost knocking Darlton's feet out from under him.

If it came down to the lives of his men, Andreas Darlton decided, he would disobey any order.

He checked the viewscreen. It seemed like the enemy tanks had not noticed him yet.

As he tightened his grip on the yoke, he felt the Knightmare Frame come to life, its Yggdrasil drive grinding into activation.

Just like the Sakuradite engine on the M-33.

The only difference was that this tank was human shaped and Bowflex Extreme was…well, tank shaped.

With a deep breath, Darlton yanked the yoke. Instantly, with the whine of countless different motors that imitated the actions of the human leg, the Knightmare Frame stood up—and, looking underneath him, Darlton suddenly was aware of exactly how tall the Knightmare Frame was.

Suddenly, a beep. Darlton turned towards its source—and noticed the that one of the Japanese Type-10s had noticed him and was aimed at him.

_Amazing_, Darlton thought to himself. This machine could even sense that the enemy was aiming at it.

Instinctively tilting the yoke, Darlton felt his stomach lurch as, with a sudden dash, the Knightmare Frame rolled out of the way of the Japanese Tank's cannon with a speed that most certainly would not have been possible for Bowflex Extreme. Darlton felt a rush of exhilaration, one he had never felt before.

Someone famous in the past had once said "Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result[13]." Darlton certainly agreed. He looked down to his lower right side. It seemed like the giant oversized assault rifle in the Knightmare's arms was certainly functional—and fully loaded.

Still swerving, Darlton reached for the other control stick—the aiming yoke. Centering the crosshairs onto the Japanese tank, he took a deep breath—and then depressed the trigger[14].

The impact was less than he thought, though it was enough to cause the Glasgow to rumble threateningly.

Almost instantly, the Type-10 shuddered—and then crumpled.

On the radio, only Kevin could manage a sentence. "Holy shit…"

Finally, Karius spoke as well, in a voice filled with wonder. "…Darlton…is that you?"

In his M-33 with his men, Darlton felt powerful, secure. He felt like he was protecting his men from harm.

Now, in this Knightmare…Andreas Darlton felt invincible.

* * *

><p>"Well this has been less than successful," Cornelia muttered as her Glasgow skidded to a stop.<p>

That, Gilbert G.P. Guilford decided, had to be the understatement of the year.

Armed only with their Assault Rifles, Cornelia and Guilford's attacks had been unsuccessful against the Panzer-Wulf. Though they could easily outmaneuver it, that hardly made a difference if you couldn't damage it.

Though he had hardly done any physical work, Guilford felt exhausted. Piloting a knightmare in battle was a demanding job that pushed one's reflexes to the limit—and, Guilford realized, he was reaching his after several hours of constant battle. Though Cornelia seemed to be trying to hide it, he could see that she, too, was flagging.

Though they had brought down several of the Mitsubishi Type-10s that accompanied the Panzer-Wulf, there were still more than enough to prevent them from shooting at the Panzer-wulf with impunity.

"Any suggestions, your Highness?"

"Can't say I do," Cornelia responded dryly. The Panzer-wulf was turning its turret around—hardly fast enough to catch up with the Glasgow, but enough to make a difference if they didn't move. "You think melee might work?"

Guilford shrugged. "Doubt it." The Glasgow was armed with two internal Tonfas that could be used in melee combat—against who, the engineers didn't say. Not like tanks would take well to being punched.

Cornelia sighed. "At this point, we may as well try."

"…get clear," a voice said in the speaker.

Guilford blinked. "…Ericsson?"

And then what looked like a beam of light connected with the Panzer-Wulf—and then, a moment later, the tank erupted with a blast of light and the sound of a thundercrack.

"Target down," Lieutenant Ericsson grunted, wiping the fragment of incinerated and superheated wood chips off the hull of his knightmare.

"Apparently, some of the guys in Shikoku brought down the Panzer-Wulfs this way," Lieutenant Aiden Lynch sighed as he skidded onto the scene, his machine pistol ready.

Guilford stared. "What about the zone—"

"The Engineers have dug in. Head on ahead. We'll take over."

Guilford stared. "But the tanks here—we?"

With the roar of assault rifles, the line of Japanese tanks shuddered as Captain Richard Clifton and the rest of G troop opened fire with their weapons.

For once, Captain Clifton was not wearing his brash grin. "Weren't you going to save my subordinate, Major?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Then go. It was our job to take over for you, correct?"

Guilford glanced at G-troops knightmare. Lieutenant DuBois' knightmare seemed to be limping, and all of the others seemed to have taken some damage. Would they be sufficient?

"…Come on," Captain Clifton sighed with a hint of his usual pride, "do you think my men won't be enough to take care of these small-fry?"

"…Thank you, Captain," Guilford managed.

"Just don't court martial me," Clifton replied with a hint of desperation. "My father will kill me."

* * *

><p>"Combat ahead," Cornelia muttered as she and Guilford drove towards the crash site.<p>

Guilford prayed that they would arrive in time.

One of the two tanks, callsign Gremlin, appeared to be destroyed, and the Extreme, Major Darlton's tank, was also disabled.

Bowflex Extreme's video feed seemed to have been destroyed, and so Guilford connected to Darlton's radio headpiece.

"Major Darlton, are you alright?"

"We're fine, Major Guilford" Darlton's voice responded, with more calm that seemed normal from somebody in a combat situation.

"We'll be here very soon! Keep holding out—"

Guilford's sentence died in his throat as he skidded to a stop. Somehow, as he stared at the upright Knightmare that stood over the remnants of a Japanese tank, he had failed to notice that unit G-03 was being registered as active.

"…Lieutenant Blake?"

With a hiss, the cockpit opened as Major Andreas Darlton stepped out, Lieutenant Blake's unconscious body in his arms.

Guilford stared at the remnants of the Japanese force, and then Darlton in the cockpit of a knightmare he had probably never seen before.

"Did you…what…"

"Sorry, Major, I took your tank out for a drive," Darlton said nonchalantly.

* * *

><p><strong>JSDF 14th Brigade Headquarters<strong>

**Kochi Outskirts**

**Shikoku, Nation of Japan**

"We've just lost Miyashita's unit!"

"Roadblock 5 is down!"

"No response from forward Armor units!"

"8th Company requesting to fall back—"

"Load up the trucks!"

The air of controlled chaos that had prevailed only a few hours ago at JSDF 14th Brigade Command had now degenerated into just chaos. Soldiers, Officers and Pages ran everywhere, yelling out a garbled mess of reports, orders and requests.

Inside all of this, Major General Matsu Kirigaya struggled to restore order.

He cursed to himself. How had it come to this?

His plan had been unexceptional but well-laid out—he had established checkpoints and roadblocks all over Kocih in an attempt to slow down the advance of the Britannian army.

And yet, with amazing speed, Britannia's new weapon seemed to be carving swathes through the Japanese lines.

Those robots moved with a speed that made Tanks look like sandbags, and the Japanese armored forces were helpless to resist.

If it had just been M-33s, Kirigaya was sure he would have managed to slow them down. And yet…

He turned to an adjutant. "Have all the civilians evacuated?"

"Yes, sir. There should be no more civilians within 30 miles of Kochi."

Kirigaya closed his eyes. "Then prepare to fall back."

The Adjutant blinked. "Retreat?"

"Yes, Sergeant Nakamura, retreat," Kirigaya snapped. "We need to slow the Britannians down until reinforcements arrive from the Eastern and Central Armies. We can't do it with our forces in a panic."

The Adjutant seemed a little shocked. Kirigaya understood it. The admission of defeat was painful to anyone. In a way, he felt like he had a duty to fight on as well. But the admission of defeat was the first step on the road to vengeance. You can't avenge anything if you have too much pride to admit you were wrong.

"Get those journalists and the Red Cross out of here first. We'll try to protect them."

"Yes, sir."

As the Adjutant turned away, Kirigaya walked over to the tactical map. The irony of it was that most of the roadblocks were in place. The vast majority of the Japanese 14th army was still ready for a fight. The Knightmares had only pierced a few of these roadblocks—and yet they had did it with unbelievable speed, isolating the roadblocks that remained so that they could be destroyed by the main Britannian army.

Yet, unless he moved fast, he would lose that majority as well.

* * *

><p>"Behind you, Tseng!"<p>

Charging forwards, Captain Dorothea Ernst skidded into position, her knightmare simultaneously locking down as she opened fire with her Railcannon.

The impact was more than enough to send the barrier of sandbags flying in a mess of burning burlap, sand, and molten metal.

If anything, urban fighting was treacherous. If you slowed down, the enemy, who knew the land, would surround you. If you moved too fast, you would overstretch your force.

"The enemy defense is hardening," 1st Lieutenant Raymond Tseng noted. The Chinese-Britannian acted as Ernst's second command, and his cool head had saved K troop several times, though his piloting skills were unexceptional, if competent.

"That's good. We're nearing the center."

"At this rate, though, we're going to be bogged down," Tseng replied with a note of concern. Knightmare Frames were not made for battles of attrition.

Ernst smiled. "That's fine…we're not here to kill them just yet."

"…What do you mean?"

"You got to close the net before you reel in the fish, right?"

* * *

><p>"I don't have time for this."<p>

"Major, the Japanese people have a duty to know."

"…fine."

From next to Inoue Naomi, Uemura raised five fingers. "We're on air in 5…4…3…2…1…go."

Through to the camera's lenses, Matou Kariya broke into a pleasant smile, as if there were not a war going on around him.

"Good Evening, Japan, I'm Matou Kariya, bringing you a special report of _Newsline_ from southern Shikoku."

A moment later, Kariya's smile was replaced by a serious expression.

"For the last few hours, the 14th Brigade of the JSDF Central Army has been engaged in fighting against the forces of the Holy Empire of Britannia. We've received reports from both the Southern Front and Northern Front of a mysterious new weapon used by the Britannians. Rumors abound on whether this is a new type of jet fighter or something else entirely, and that the Japanese army is in full retreat.

To address these concerns, I am here again with Major General Kirigaya of the 14th army."

Even through the camera lens, Inoue could see that this Major General Kirigaya was a completely different person from the General who they had been with a few hours ago.

This General Kirigaya looked twenty years older—his hair seemed grayer, his eyes seemed haunted, and his gaze looked haggard—and yet, with an effort, he made a smile that seemed to cut his fatigue in half.

Kariya handed the microphone to the General gently, the complete opposite of the celebrity paparazzi who, almost literally, stuffed their microphones in the faces of their charges.

"General, what are your opinions on the rumors that the Japanese army has been defeated?"

"Matou-_san_, I would have to say that they are completely untrue." Kirigaya smiled. "The 14th Brigade's duty was to escort and evacuate civilians north to refugee camps and move them out of harm's way—and in that respect this operation has been a complete success."

Next to Inoue, Uemura leaned over and whispered to her. "Inoue, that there is spin. You take bad news and change it around to make it sound like good news."

Kariya, meanwhile, smiled pleasantly, as if proud of a victorious Japan.

"So we are not losing?"

"No, not at all," Kirigaya responded lightly. "We have been fighting hard, and so have they, but we plan to be able to isolate them in Shikoku. The Central and Eastern Armies are already on their way to put an end to this attack."

Inoue turned to Uemura, who adjusted his glasses as he gave a thumbs up to Kariya. "Isn't this cheating the people?"

Uemura sighed. "It is…and it isn't. Technically, nothing he said is wrong…but at the same time, Kariya and the General are putting things in the best possible light.

But Kariya's doing it because Japan needs it."

Uemura pointed at the soldiers running to and fro in the camp and the tank that stood behind Kirigaya and Kariya. "How do you think our troops would react if they knew that they were almost wiped out in the first battle? We have to put things in the best possible light, so that our soldiers don't give up.

And think about how our enemies, who will be watching Kariya speak, will think? If they hear that Britannian soldiers are dying…well, it's a long shot, but they might want to pursue peace."

The sound of yelling behind them seemed to have intensified, and Uemura turned in irritation.

"So damn noisy."

Kariya, meanwhile, seemed to be wrapping up the interview. "And, finally, General, what do you think about the rumors of this new weapon that we've heard about?"

For a moment, Kirigaya looked a little uncomfortable, before he spoke. A crash from the headquarters, though, obscured his voice. Kariya leaned closer. "Excuse me, General?"

Kirigaya finally managed a smile. "Matou-_san_, I have also heard these rumors and seen these weapons—these 'knightmare frames,' in battle. And I can confirm that they exist."

Uemura clicked his tongue. "This one's going to be a tough one."

"However, I believe their contribution to the Britannian military effort is, at best, limited, and I am sure that the valor of our soldiers will be able to overcome—"

And then, with a crash that caused Inoue to jam her eye into the eyepiece, the ground shook as some…thing skidded onto the scene. Despite all her training, Inoue could not stop herself from shaking as she swerved the camera upwards at the huge metal figure that had, with a blast of dust, slid into the scene. Turning back with watering eyes, Inoue could see several shapes inside the camp. The JSDF tank was the first to respond, raising its barrel—and then screaming in a blast of twisted metal as the metal robot fired several shots into its hull point-blank. The shockwave was enough to blast Inoue off her feet. Her ears ringing, she looked up—just as the robot pointed its oversize gun at Kirigaya and Kariya. Inoue closed her eyes—but no gunshot ensued. Instead, with a crackle, a loud, amplified voice spoke out.

"Enemy Soldiers, I am 1st Lieutenant Monica Kruszewski of the Britannian Knightmare Corps. You are now my prisoners. Lay down your arms, and you will be afforded all the rights of a captured enemy combatant under the Geneva Convention. Repeat, Lay down your arms, and you will be given all the rights of an enemy combatant under the Geneva Convention."

"We surrender," Uemura immediately said, throwing down his notepad, as did Kariya. Inoue stared at Kariya.

_Are we just going to surrender like this?!_ She tried to convey through her yet-unknown psychic powers.

Yet, Kariya's expression didn't change. With his eyes, he pointed at her hands.

Helplessly, Inoue raised her hands.

General Kirigaya, meanwhile, looked dumbstruck. Slowly, his hands strayed towards his sidearm…

"Put your hands up, and I guarantee the lives of your men," The Britannian Lieutenant said slowly.

For a moment, Kirigaya looked ready to pull out the gun and shoot anyway—and then, finally, with an expression of shame, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

* * *

><p><strong>1900 Hours<strong>

**FOB Triumph**

**Shikoku, Occupied Japan**

Night had fallen by the time D-troop arrived at Forward Operating Base Triumph, on the outskirts of Kochi. Nobody had spoken for most of the trip—not even Captain King of Kayeri.

As they soundlessly removed their activation keys and leapt to the slushy ground, they were greeted by the technicians, who awaited them cheerily with Hot Chocolate and coffee.

It was a testament to their exhaustion that they could only soundlessly take their drinks and ignore their congratulations.

With shuffling feet, they stumbled into the small barracks that had been built for the Knightmare Corps.

The barracks was a five star hotel by military standards, with single rooms and a single common room lit by a homely lamp—but nobody at this moment could care enough to be thankful.

It seemed, to Monica's relief, that they were the first to return. She wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone.

"Well," Captain King started in an attempt at good cheer—and then faltered as he looked at the four pairs of haggard eyes that stared at him.

"Well…I understand we're all tired. We'll just hold the debriefing now, and then I'll let you guys go."

Kayeri, though, raised his hand with a smile. "I'm sorry, Old Man…but can I sit this one out? I'm a little tired?"

Kotori opened her mouth to speak, but Captain King nodded. "Permission granted. Get some sleep."

"Thanks, Cap," Kayeri said, stretching cheerfully. "Man, I'm so tired…"

Lloyd, Kotori, Monica and Captain King watched as Kayeri disappeared, seemingly humming to himself.

Kotori stared at Kayeri's receding back—and then at Captain King, and then at Kayeri's back, and then back to Captain King.

"…Go ahead," Captain King murmured with a nod to Kotori.

For a moment, Kotori looked surprised, almost confused, before standing up and making a quick bow. "Thank you, Captain."

* * *

><p>"Man, today was so tiring," Kayeri remarked cheerfully as he walked down the corridor, finding the room with his name. With a whistle, he opened the door with his activation key. The barracks room was small—but the fact that it was a single was already an amenity that most soldiers would not get.<p>

The room was dark, with the only light being whatever streamed from the small window across from him.

"Heh…I guess I really need my beauty sleep," Kayeri murmured as he closed the door behind him, leaning back on the door.

"Hahah…heh…"

He looked around. He was alone, as he hoped.

_It's fine to not pretend anymore…_

"Hehe…" he let the laugh die in his throat as he slowly slid down, his back to the closed door.

He held his hand in front of him in the near-darkness.

Concentrate, imagine a little, and it could be the hand of that burning, crumbling ash-man that he had seen in that tank…or those men, dancing their lives away to the sizzling tune of White Phosphorous.

Unbidden, the images of those dying man danced in front of his eyes in the darkness, and he felt that tingling that had to be disgust.

_You or someone you know could have suffered the same fate under different circumstances,_ Kayeri realized. He looked at the hand that had pulled the trigger that had done this—and felt the same tingling disgust that he had before. He imagined those faces were of people he knew—his sister; his parents; Monica; Captain King; Lloyd; Kotori, all stretching the blackened fingers that fell off in front of their smoking eyes, their skin slowly peeling off like a cicada molting leaving behind raw flesh not bloody flesh but cooked flesh seared shut like a thanksgiving turkey ears noses burnt off hair scorched fragments of skull from peeling skin faces burning smoking peeling fusing melting off so only white skull remains—

"Kayeri!"

Kayeri's eye widened—and then calmed down as he heard the voice across the door he recognized as Kotori's.

"Oy, Kotori," he said in what he hoped was a cheerful voice.

"Open the door," Kotori said, her voice decipherable.

"I'm not too good at this, am I?" sighed Kayeri, smiling. That would be the Kotori he knew. "

You're going to tell me how badly I screwed this up, aren't you?

You're going to tell me how I should have done better, being a representative of the Iroquois people, right?

That I was committing political suicide pointing a weapon at my friend and comrade, right?

That I'm going to be court martialed and get off on a dishonorable discharge, right?"

In a way, Kayeri wished it would happen. To just go back home—to just forget everything he had seen—to just be able to rest, and pretend he had never seen the men that he had killed. In a way, he dearly prayed it would happen.

"…Kayeri, I'm not going to say any of those things," Kotori said, her voice slightly muffled by the door. "Open the door."

Kayeri laughed. "Who are you, and what did you do with Kotori? The Kotori I know would never—"

"…It's fine, Kayeri. You don't have to pretend to me."

Kayeri's laugh slowly trailed off—and then picked up again.

"You noticed?"

"…I'm supposed to marry you, how could I not?"

Kayeri closed his eyes. "I'm not too good at this business, am I?"

"You're not, Kayeri, you never have. So can you tell me what's wrong?"

Kayeri looked at the window. He really wanted to open the door. He really wanted to open the door and explain to Kotori what he had seen, how and why he had shrank away. He really wanted her to see how he really felt.

But, at the same time, he couldn't.

"…someday I will. But tonight…please leave me alone. I'll be fine by tomorrow morning."

"Kayeri…"

"…I promise."

For a few moments—perhaps a few minutes—perhaps a few hours—Kotori simply stood there—and then, finally, she turned away and walked off.

Kayeri waited until her footsteps vanished.

_Why did I say no?_

He knew that he had really want to tell her everything…but at the same time, he was something else.

Maybe afraid.

Afraid that, when Kotori looked inside Kayeri Joseph Brant III, she would just find a coward.

And that, more than being burnt to death or being shot or being stabbed, scared Kayeri more than anything.

* * *

><p>By the time Kotori returned to the lounge, Captain King was the only person at the center table, apparently writing something onto a piece of paper and drinking from his omnipresent flask.<p>

"Ah, Talasi," King said as he looked up from his writing and extended the flask. "A drink?"

"…I'm underage," Kotori said slowly.

"You're old enough to die for your country, you should be old enough to drink for it," King replied with a grin.

Sighing, Kotori extended a hand—and then stopped. Instead, she saluted.

"Sir, I have a request."

King raised his eyebrows. "Well, if you call me Sir for it, it's clearly something big. Let's hear it."

"I'd like to request that you overlook 2nd Lieutenant Brant's acts of insubordination today. It was not in character, and he will not do it again."

Captain King blinked, but Kotori continued before he could say anything.

"I'll whip him into shape. I'll make sure he's willing to pull the trigger on anyone. I'll do anything, Captain. I—" Abruptly, she stopped as Captain King raised a hand with an unreadable expression.

"Lieutenant, have you heard of what a Natural-Born Killer is?"

"Natural-born killer?"

"In Annam, the shrinks started figuring out and understanding PTSD and the reasoning behind it[15]. As you know, a large portion of the Britannian Army troops that served there came back with PTSD. They did a survey during the 2nd Pacific War, and apparently only 15-25% of the army and marine saps actually fired their weapon in battle. Soldiers were less likely to hit human-shaped targets in practice. Do you know why?"

Captain King sighed as he leaned back.

"Obviously, because human beings are not conditioned to kill another. We've been raised since we're young that Thou Shalt Not Kill, the golden rule.

Most of the time, we as soldiers get by through getting rid of our ability to see the enemy as human beings, and shutting off our emotions.

But that doesn't mean that you won't get PTSD later.

And so, even when we are fighting to defend our loved ones, when we fight for a good cause…it's traumatizing for most men to kill others.

Most.

But there are people who don't have that problem.

There are people who aren't psychopaths—they have morals, morality, but they simply do not suffer the same psychological recoil of such an action. It's partly genetic, partly in upbringing…but these are what we call Natural Killers. The Army tries to find those people. Those are people who, if ordered, would shoot a prisoner or a fleeing enemy, without a second thought.

They are useful, but they are dangerous in the wrong hands.

Now, I'm not a shrink, but maybe Lloyd has aspects of that. But am I going to punish Brant because he is a moral human being?

No, I won't."

Captain King sighed as he took a swig of his flask.

"I will let it go this time—but keep in mind that what he does affects our survivals. If he pussies off again, things might be worse. Britannian people may be hurt because of it. And that's why I won't let him off again after this.

So I'm relying on you, Talasi. Make sure your future wife is willing to pull the trigger like the rest of us next time," King said.

For a moment, Talasi looked dumbstruck—and then, finally, she broke into a slightly watery smile.

"Thank you, Sir!"

"No problem," King replied. "Now, I have some stuff to write, and you're tired. Go and get some sleep. The battle continues tomorrow."

* * *

><p>"You're way too lax with your men," a voice said as Kotori left.<p>

Captain Owen King looked up as a Brown-haired man with a thin moustache and a severe expression walked in with a grin.

Adrian Soresi of the Britannian Air Force sat down next to King with two cans of cheap liquor.

"You're way too lax with me," King sighed as he cracked open a can.

"You're my friend. My men are my underlings," Adrian replied.

King waved his hand absentmindedly "No, I mean as a Purist. After all, I banged a number—"

"—and bore us a great heir," Adrian shot back. "Now I wish you had banged a pureblooded Britannian—but women of the same quality as Alicia are hard to find. Though that Lieutenant there sure looked the part…women from Area 6…well, I can't blame you."

Captain King noticed the blush on Adrian Soresi's cheeks. He always forgot that Adrian was very bad with Alcohol. "She's from Area 1, and she's taken."

"Oh, that's a pity," Adrian sighed. "We're getting too old for bang-and-bolts, aren't we? You've got Mackenzie and I've got Kewell and Marika…when the wife will let me see them," he spat with more vitriol was necessary.

"Alright, alright, if one of the Purists heard any of this you'd be in the same position as me."

"And I'd be fucking happy about it," Adrian growled. "I agree with their views—Britannians will always be Britannians and Numbers will always be Numbers. But all their shit about marrying who they tell you to marry, raise your kids how they want you to be raised…I barely even get to see my kids anymore."

"I know that feel," King sighed. "I never get to see Mackenzie now. Those guys up there won't let me."

"Yeah. Fuck those guys," Adrian mumbled as he took another drink and pointed at King's sheet of paper. "Woss' Dat?"

King wasn't sure if he ought to answer Adrian, given he wouldn't remember anyway.

"Letter."

"Tuwoo?"

"Mackenzie."

"Duz she e'er rite bak?"

"Nah…I don't think the Purists would let her."

"Yaarr…fuk…dose…guys…" Adrian managed before collapsing on the table in a drunken stupor.

Owen King sighed. One of the problems of drinking so much was that you never had anyone who could drink anywhere as much as you.

* * *

><p><strong>2000 Hours<strong>

**Camp Victory**

**Hokkaido**

"Cute kid," growled Major Andreas Darlton as he passed the picture of the blonde-haired boy back to Kevin, Callsign Bowflex Extreme's driver.

"I wish I could be home more, though…he's never really had a father, what with that woman never taking anything seriously," Kevin replied darkly. "When I get back, I'm going to go to court again for custody."

"I'm sure he'll grow to be a fine man like you," Darlton noted with a smile.

Kevin grinned back. "Thanks, Major. Well, I'm turning in for the night…see you."

"Yup," Darlton nodded as Kevin stood up and walked off. Now was indeed a good time to sleep. He turned to go—just as a new voice caused him to turn.

"Major Darlton." With a curt bow, Major Gilbert G.P. Guilford smiled. "Thank you for your assistance today."

"It's nothing," Darlton growled. "Is your pilot already?"

Guilford sighed. "She'll live, and likely recover to full health. But not for a while. What I wanted to ask you about was your short 'test drive' with the Glasgow"

Darlton nodded. "Go on. Am I in trouble?"

Guilford, though, smiled. "Actually, I just transferred a member of my squad to G troop."

Darlton shrugged. "Get to the point."

"Would you be interested in being transferred from the Armored Corps to the Knightmare Corps? You will be temporarily demoted to Lieutenant, but…"

"Sir, I accept," Darlton responded with the same attitude but unusual quickness.

"Then it's decided then," Guilford nodded. "Welcome to His Majesty's Imperial Knightmare Corps."

* * *

><p>"I hope Lieutenant Darlton won't be taking my position," Cornelia li Britannia remarked dryly as Guilford walked off.<p>

"He is quite the natural, Your Highness, but he will take over from Ericsson's position as Heavy Weapons." Ericcson had been transferred to Captain Clifton's G-troop as 1st Lieutenant—ostensibly as the second-in-command—but under the threat of notifying Lord Clifton of his son's transgression, Captain Clifton had generously allowed Ericcson to command with everything short of the actual rank of captain, an arrangement that benefited both sides.

"Well, that's good. I look forwards to working with him, Sir."

Guilford nodded—and then stopped.

"Sir, milady?"

Cornelia blinked for a moment—and then burst into laughter. "Good lord, Sir, did you think I was being serious? It was just a joke. You will always be my superior."

"Ahh…of course," Guilford responded. It was, after all, a good thing. Integrating a princess and a knight into the leadership of the Knightmare Corps would have been a logistical, legal and tactical nightmare.

And yet, Guilford wondered as he continued walking, why did he feel so disappointed?

* * *

><p><strong>14 Hours ago<strong>

**Haneda Airport**

**Tokyo, Nation of Japan**

"Maiya, what's the situation?"

"Target transport will be touching down at runway 8 in 40 minutes."

"Good."

With a clank, Kiritsugu chambered a round into his Walther WA 2000.

It was time for the Holy Grail War to Begin.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Notes and References<strong>

* * *

><p>[1] <em><span>Newsline<span>_ in English: Broadcasted on the NHK, _Newsline_, a 10-30 minute news broadcast, is presented in English.

[2] The Divine Wind / Kamikaze – The mongol Empire (at the time stretching from China to Anatolia) attempted two invasions of Japan, backed by Korean and Chinese marines and sailors. During the first, Mongol forces overwhelmed the Japanese, but returned to their fleets during the night. A typhoon, the first "divine wind", destroyed much of the fleet, leaving the Mongols empty-handed. In 1281, the Mongols attempted a second invasion, this time with 140,000 men and over 4,500 ships. However, the Japanese had erected defenses all over the coast, and after failing to find a landing point, a typhoon devastated the Mongol fleet, killing 130,500 immediately. Part of this reason was that Kublai Khan had ordered a whole fleet within a year. Song Chinese navy ships, while sturdy, were expensive and slow to build, so Korean and Chinese shipbuilders built traditional flat-bottomed river boats, which do not fare well in open seas. As a result, the ships easily capsized in the second divine wind. Divine Wind is also the inspiration of, of course, the Kamikaze suicide dive bombers of World War II (the first Pacific War in this timeline)

[3] Soviet Propaganda – seriously, who else would get away with that kind of thing? A bit later, another mine worker claimed to mine 240 tons of coal in the same amount of time. ( www . cracked article_19337_the-7-most-unintentionally-hilarious-propaganda-campaigns_p2 . ht ml)

[4] Mobility Kill – Tank "kills" come in three forms: Mobility Kills, where the vehicle may be able to fight but has lost all propulsion; Firepower Kills where the vehicle may be able to move but has lost its weapons; or a Catastrophic Kill, which, as the name suggests, is when the tank is no longer capable of battle, whether through complete destruction or the loss of all capacity to move or fire.

[5] Armenia and Rwanda – Both Armenia and Rwanda are sites of genocide, though there are people who will argue that neither are genocides. During World War I (in this case the Great European War), the Ottoman Empire, was part of the central powers (Austria-Hungary and Germany) had suspected that the Armenians would assist the Entente (England, France, Italy and later the US) against the Ottomans (This is also the site of the little-known Gallipoli campaign. British and French forces attempted to land in Turkey and overthrow the Ottomans, but they were nearly annihilated by the Turks under the man who would come to lead Turkey and westernize/Secularize it), and so engaged in mass deportations. While the Turkish and Armenian accounts differ (the Turks believe that many Armenians WERE complicit and fought back, while the Armenians claim this was ethnic cleansing), what is clear is that anywhere from 600,000 to 180,000 Armenians died as a result. The international community enjoys pissing Turkey off by recognizing the Armenian Genocide. The situation in Rwanda in 1994 is much, much more complex, but I'll simplify it by saying that after they gained independence from Belgium, Rwanda fell into a civil war. In the process, the social (NOT Ethnic for many reasons) group favored by the Belgians, the Tutsis, were scapegoated and attacked by the Hutu, another social group, and 500,000-1,000,000 Tutsis (1 out of 5 Rwandans) are believed to have died. The UN was powerless to intervene, and the genocide only ended after Tutsi rebels drove the Hutu military groups and the Hutu militia, the Interhamwe, out of Rwanda

[6] Four Chords – scientists have actually researched this, and in the past 55 years, music has become louder and louder, and it has become ever more limited in scope ( www . reuters article / 2012 / 07 / 26 / us-science-music-idUSBRE86P0R820120726 – remove the spaces). Anyone who has a good grasp of guitar or piano playing knows that you can play many of the hits of the past half a century with the chords of D A B(minor) and G as long as you change the key ( www . listenonrepeat watch / ? v=oOlDewpCfZQ). Not that I care, I'm listening to One Direction right now and I'm a 19 year old guy.

[7]Napalm – Napalm is a nasty weapon. Here is a picture of an Iraqi tank soldier whose tank was hit by Napalm. WARNING: GRAPHIC. ( iconicphotos . 2010 / 06 / charred-iraqi-soldier-600-pix . jpg % 3Fw % 3D700)

[8] Sachem – a representative in the Iroquois Confederacy, a Chief. They are subordinate to the Clan Mother but represent the tribe in political decision-making.

[9] Mazinger Z – a very, very old anime, one of the first of the mecha anime, predating the very first Gundam Series. There are actually older ones as far back as the 50s.

[10] APS: Active Protection System. This can vary from simply better armor to systems that actively sense rockets and projectiles and destroys them with other projectiles. They're not fool-proof, but they've been around since the Soviet Union. For example, Israel's system, Trophy, senses an incoming projectile, determines the vector and then fires a shotgun-like blast of small pellets to destroy the rocket. APS is far from invulnerable—it is ineffective against traditional HEAT or HESH shells (which require armor), and some of the projectiles they are meant to intercept such as anti-tank rockets are also constantly being improved.

[11] NOT Railguns: I understand that I am literally directly contradicting Code Geass Canon, which dictates that railguns were developed in the 1500s and took hold instead of gunpowder. And as a fan both of history and alternate history, this is one thing I really cannot accept. For one, even if the Europeans had come up with railguns, the high cost would mean that the vast majority of the world that had come up with traditional gunpower weapons (Persia, india, China, the Ottomans) would have stuck to muskets just because they're a lot cheaper to manufacture. For another, the development of electromagnetism and railgun technology would have completely altered the history of the world from there, much more than what happens in code geass. This would affect the development of much of the technology we take for granted, and how we get it. We'd have battery or an economy-sized power generation in the 1500's. It simply isn't feasible, either technologically or historically, kind of trying to reach nuclear technology without electricity. It might explain the retardation of Nuclear development in this history, but not nearly enough.

[12] White Phosphorus Burns: this is one of the worst ones, but… scrapetv News / News%20Pages / Everyone%20Else / images-2 / White-Phosphorus-victim . j pg

[13] I like not being shot and shooting people – Churchill. The guy loved fighting, having fought at Gallipolli and I think at Africa at some point. He wanted the US and Britain to take the surrendered Nazis as soldiers and then fight a war with the USSR as soon as the second world war as Over. The british people decided that this was a bad idea and voted him out just before the war was over.

[14] Easy Pilot Knightmares –keep in mind that both Lelouch and Euphemia were capable of piloting the Glasgow / Burai with no previous experience, and that Lelouch was even a competent, if unexceptional, pilot. Therefore, my guess is that the Glasgow piloting system is actually fairly simple or at the very least intuitive in order for this to occur.

[15] NK theory – this is actually a theory that's out there. Here is an article on it: don't mind the shitty formatting, it came from a military journal. notes . utk . e du / bio / Greenberg . nsf / a80806fbebea8dd285257015006e 1943 / 09613ff986b2a868852575990015 05c1 ? Ope nDocument

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Postface and responses to Reviewers:<strong>

**Well, with this done, I can spend a few weeks not worrying about Writing-**

**which is good, because midterm season is once again rolling in. Actually,  
><strong>

**I hoped to finish this chapter by 8 PM today. It's 12:50 in the morning, so, **

**as you can tell, I was completely unsuccessful. Anyhow, I'm going to respond to **

**the reviews quickly and then go. Sorry if I don't go too much into depth:**

**Angry Santo - Sorry I didn't get back to you until right now, but I actually only really check the reviews on the days I update new chapters. I'd love for you to Beta for me, and I will definitely send you my next chapter when I'm done. It should be a fairly long one, though I pray it's not nearly as long as this one-I really punctuated the action in this one and it still kinda got a bit too long. But yeah, generally there's at least one or two references to another anime/game/event/thing in every single chapter, and Laura really fit, what with her appearance. I'll be writing a chapter for HeavyValor (whose academic troubles are even larger than mine), so expect to see another IS character crop up a little!  
><strong>

**Atrile**** - I was in Hong Kong for all of August. I thought I'd have time to write an essay, but it turns out that it wasn't the case. I did, however, get a lot of great anime stuff that I burnst several year's worth of pocket money on. Capitalism's a bitch.**

**EVA-Saiyajin - I can't believe I did actually write that, though being a very haphazard spell-checker I wouldn't put it above me. Thanks for pointing it out, and I'll fix it when I don't have a test to do very, very soon, as tonight was a really bad time to write.**

**Frostyvale -**** thanks! I didn't realize that AU were actually really rare, because, looking at the other Code Geass fanfictions (heavyValors, Sephiroth's) the stories of those seemed to be AU. Until Kyugan's came out I didn't realize that it was much easier, if also a bit strange, to just to character transplants. Anyhow, I actually have a lot planned out for the AU, so I do hope you keep reading!**

**HeavyValor - I talk to you every other day, we can discuss this another time i'm like dying from sleep deprivation here. I really shouldn't have slept at 3 last night.  
><strong>

**MM Browsing ****- I can tell you for sure that the Holy Grail War by its normal rules can only last up to 2 weeks, and that the Second Pacific War took less than a Month, so my fanfic will not be longer than that, but I hope that you'll keep reading it! For the actual Code Geass plot, you should refer to HeavyValor's Fate/Nightmare Apatheia, which is the sequel (well to be exact this is the prequel) to this fic.**

**Tikigod784 - if there's anything that makes me enthusiastic about writing things it would be about stuff blowing up, so I assure you there will be many things of that nature. I do understand why you wouldn't want a prequel, especially of two of the most depressing events that lead up to Fate/Stay Night and Code Geass, though, I stayed away from reading Fate/Zero for some time because of it...but idk, even Fate/Zero does bring a few "good" endings (at least for Waver and...well, Waver)**


	15. Chapter 5: The Tabletop Tiger

**Chapter 5 - A Tabletop Tiger**

**"**_My Father had a profound influence on me. He was a lunatic_."

**-**Spike Milligan

* * *

><p><strong>Saturday, February 6th, 2010 A.T.B., 0900 Hours Tokyo Time<strong>

**Kururugi Family Compound, Nation of Japan**

It was an unusually hot February day. A warm front was passing over, and the sun seemed to be trying to make up for the weeks of cloudy weather that had prevailed throughout January.

Fujimura Taiga wished every February day was like this as she expelled a small spray of cool sweat with a flick of her hair. Returning her (improperly colored) tiger-print shinai to its carrying bag, she plucked at the collar of her slightly-sweaty Hakama in order to allow more air in.

A polite cough caused her to turn and glare at the suited, long-haired man who watched from the Veranda walkway.

"Milady, it's unladylike to expose your body like that," Takasu Sasaki admonished as he pushed his omnipresent sunglasses up the tip of his nose.

"It's impolite to sneak up on people," Taiga snapped in return.

Sasaki looked a little pained.

"Forgive me, Milady, but the _Oyabun_ specified that you be studying at this time." _I wouldn't bother otherwise,_ he left unsaid. The daughter of the "father," or _Oyabun_, of the Fujimura Group, was referred to as the "Tabletop Tiger" for good reason.

"The old man can specify what he wants," Taiga grumbled, "but he can't control me like this."

_Yeah, nobody can_, Sasaki thought to himself. If there was anything Sasaki had learned in his time with Raiga and Taiga Fujimura, it was that the sun would sooner rise in the west before a Fujimura changed his or her mind.

Nevertheless, he had a duty to the _Oyabun_, as _kobun_[1] to watch over his daughter in his absence.

"Milady, please come inside. We are at war, you know," he suggested in a tone he hoped didn't sound as imploring as it did to him.

Miraculously, Taiga sighed in what sounded like resignation. "Half the JSDF is outside Tokyo," she muttered as she stepped onto the veranda. Sasaki tried not to let his surprise and elation show. "And what about Suzaku and his Britannian friend? Why are they outside?"

Sasaki grimaced. As far as he was concerned, the Prime Minister's son and the political hostage from Britannia had nothing to do with his job.

"I'm sure they are being attended to by the other servants."

"Yeah alright," Taiga scoffed. "If I know Suzaku, he's probably lost the housekeepers already…"

* * *

><p>"Come on, I know you can do it!"<p>

_No_, _I really can't,_ Lelouch Lamperouge thought to himself as he clung to the edge of the abyss. He could feel his strength sapping away as he desperately tried to pull himself over the edge. Forced to bear the full weight of a human body, his fingers ached in protest.

With a desperate surge of strength, Lelouch pulled as hard as he could with his shaking forearms. For just a moment, the green horizon flashed before him, and he stretched his hand out to grab it—and then clenched on empty air as, overtaxed, his other arm gave way.

_So it ends like this._

In flashes, Lelouch remembered that day at the Imperial palace, and of the sister who was waiting for him.

_At the end, I couldn't even avenge my mother or protect my sister._

With a sigh, he closed his eyes in regret as he reached out into space.

…_I'm sorry, Nunnally…_

And a hand tightened around his arm, pulling him upwards with inhuman strength.

With a gasp, he felt the cool touch of the grass in front of him as, opening his eyes, he looked up at his savior.

Suzaku Kururugi sighed with a cheerful smile as he yanked Lelouch to his feet. "You're really bad at this, you know?"

"No, you're just inhuman," Lelouch replied through gasps as he straightened up.

"Most humans would be able to climb a four-foot overhang," Suzaku sighed as he leapt down the small rock overhang. Just to reinforce his point, he scrambled up the rock face with his usual simian dexterity.

"I could have died," Lelouch muttered.

Suzaku's only response was an airy laugh.

Such was the heartlessness of Suzaku Kururugi, that he would rather risk the life of his best friend on a daily basis than stay inside for a sensible game of chess.

Lelouch regarded his best friend between gasps. To be honest, he was not even sure why he was friends with this monster of a boy. If there were two exact opposites, they would have to be Lelouch Lamperouge and Suzaku Kururugi. Where Lelouch's dark hair was straight and tidy, Suzaku's inexplicably brown hair was wild and tangled, only given an impression of tidiness through liberal application of water and a comb. Where Lelouch preferred the civilized indoors, Suzaku had an untameable, almost-brutish obsession with the savage wild of the Kururugi Residence's gardens.

Yet if there were anyone Lelouch knew would be behind him when things went bad, it would be Suzaku.

As Lelouch looked down at the nearly five-foot embankment, he realized that their friendship was the only reason he embarked on these mad, danger-filled adventures.

If Suzaku was willing to follow him into the valley of death, how could he not do the same?

"Let's climb that tree next," Suzaku suggested with his usual carefree grin.

Lelouch sighed. Friendship was a painful thing.

And then something caught his eye.

In the distance, the vast monolith of Mount Fuji reared up into the sky as it always had, a sight Lelouch had long since gotten used to.

Yet the mountain was now marred by countless black dots, like a crowd of flies around the world's biggest turd.

"…huh?" It appeared Suzaku had noticed as well, as he, too, turned around to stare at the black shapes that dotted the mountain.

Lelouch Lamperouge clenched his teeth.

_So this was what you meant when you said I was a dead man?_

Turning around, Lelouch began to walk back.

"Suzaku, let's go."

Suzaku turned, surprised with the speed at which Lelouch walked.

_Usually you can't even motivate him to get out of the house._

"Wait, what? For what?"

And then, with a gout of flame, a plume of smoke rose up on the horizon.

"To protect Nunnally."

* * *

><p><strong>Saturday, February 6th, 2010 A.T.B., 100 Hours Pendragon Imperial Time<strong>

**Tudor Imperial Airport**

Built twenty years ago, Tudor Imperial Airport was meant to convey the majesty of the Britannian Empire. Full of dramatic arches, scenic fountains and largely pointless gardens, the palace, exclusively used by the Imperial Family and High Nobility, was meant to be a place for press conferences, grand galas and pomp.

Today, though, the airstrip was nearly deserted. Even the usual Imperial Guardsmen were absent, relegated to guarding the perimeter.

"You don't' like this place," V.V. observed as he walked through the empty halls, flanked by his two immortal guardians, almost like a child in front of his parents.

"The Architecture is pretentious and shallow, and the paintings are pandering imitations of more accomplished artists. There is not an ounce of sincerity in this building," Emperor Charles Zi Britannia replied. Escorted only by Geass Directorate officials, the Emperor did not make any attempt to hide his dislike of the building.

"Not unlike its architect," V.V. noted with a smile. When Tudor Corporation had constructed the airport in honor of the 97th Emperor, vowing their loyalty to him, a loyalty that had quickly evaporated when things went badly. When Charles had emerged as emperor, they had tried to build an airport for him too. Charles nationalized the company.

"If there's one thing I've learned as Emperor," Charles remarked, "it's that more and more people will lie to you the higher you go in life."

"Something I will not have to worry about," V.V. replied as he looked up at Charles' towering figure, still well-built even into his sixties.

Charles laughed—not a barking, mirthful laugh, but one that was just barely enough to convey his amusement. "Brother, I sometimes wonder if you should have waited some time before taking that code from that madwoman. You missed out on a lot."

"Brother, it's difficult to imagine a better life when women you don't know buy you ice cream," V.V. retorted with a laugh.

Walking silently behind V.V., Nalika Sarasvati watched V.V. out of the corner of her eye. This was, after all, a side of the Immortal that she or Uryu rarely saw. For once, the grin on that boy's face was not his usual, mocking smirk, but a smile that genuinely carried warmth.

V.V. was a boy of many betrayals—after all, that was how Nalika had obtained her Code of Geass, through the betrayal of the old Geass Directorate.

At this moment, surrounded by Geass Directorate men, V.V. could kill Charles with a snap of his fingers.

And yet, instinctively, Nalika knew that, of all the people V.V. could and would manipulate, the man walking next to him was the one person V.V. would never betray.

The Directorate guards saluted as V.V. and the Emperor walked onto the airstrip. It was a rather modest ceremony, attended only by the Directorate guards. The private jet, one of the Directorate's, waited.

Charles looked at V.V. "You're off then, brother?"

V.V. smiled. "You seem to be doubting my ability, Charles."

"I am not," Charles responded stiffly, and V.V. smiled.

"Then smile. Everything you and I have worked for will be completed soon. The kind gentle world that you and Marianne wanted. The world that humankind deserves."

For a moment, something flickered in Charles' eyes—and V.V. realized he had misspoke. Sighing, he put a small, childlike hand on Charles' hand.

"Charles, Marianne is gone. But the dream you shared with her isn't. So put your faith in me once more. I will fulfill her dream for her."

For a moment, Charles still seemed lost—and then finally nodded with a smile that V.V. rarely saw nowadays.

"Of course. I trust you, brother."

"And I you, Charles."

* * *

><p>V.V. leaned back as he allowed the force of the plane's ascent to push him into his seat.<p>

"The more powerful you get, the more people lie to you, huh?" he muttered as he held his hand in front of him.

His fingers still remembered the sensation of pulling the trigger, the wild struggle of the rifle he had aimed on that night in the Imperial Palace.

"Even I…"

He closed his eyes. What was done was done. After all, wasn't this what she had wanted?

Don't worry, Marianne. I'll fulfill your wish for you.

Charles zi Britannia shaded his eyes with one hand as he watched the jet recede into the deep blue sky.

"…even you, Brother?"

* * *

><p><strong>Tokyo Air Traffic Control Center<strong>

**Tokorozawa, Saitama Prefecture, Nation of Japan**

From a distance, the battle that raged within the Tokyo Air Traffic Control Center looked almost trivial. From the scope of a rifle, the soundless muzzle flashes and explosions could have been that of a particularly enthusiastic nightclub. The figures that ran and fell seemed as significant as the ants underneath a boot.

For Maiya Hisau, though, that kind of mindset was useless.

To delude yourself with that kind of optimism would only set you up for PTSD once somebody shattered that illusion of yours.

For someone who had been forced to look straight into the face of death, the pretenses of those who could afford to look away were pitiful.

"JSDF and Britannians engaging each other," she reported into her headset as she settled in her position on top of the residential complex on which she was watching. Fenced off from the rest of Tokorozawa, the Air Control Center's grounds were largely filled with flat, empty field, making an approach difficult, something the Britannian special forces were slowly discovering.

Yet the Britannian troops continued forwards—control of the Air Control Center would mean control of all air traffic in most of the Greater Tokyo Area, too great a prize for the Britannians to let up.

Though most of the Britannian force was still landing, it appeared that Britannian special forces had long since been deployed to neutralize air defense and air control areas. And it seemed like they were doing quite well.

With a sickening crunch that could be seen through the scope, a JSDF soldier's head snapped back as he fell in an ungainly heap. He probably wouldn't be standing up soon.

"Stand by," Emiya Kiritsugu's voice echoed in her head.

"The identification card that Fujimura gave us was for the JSDF," Maiya noted. As thanks for an occasion in which Kiritsugu and Maiya had saved his life, Fujimura Group _Oyabun_ Fujimura Raiga had provided Kiritsugu with forged documents and passcodes to be used at the Air Traffic Control Center. It was unnecessary to point out that the Britannians would be less willing to take Japanese IDs than the JSDF.

"Not a reason to jeopardize the plan. Stand by."

"Yessir," Maiya replied, noting the location of a twitching Japanese body as the Britannian special forces closed in towards the building complex. She was in no rush—and if a few Britannians and Japanese died, it would make her job easier.

* * *

><p><strong>Sunday, February 6th, 2010 A.T.B., 0400 Hours Tokyo Time<strong>

**Minato, Tokyo, Nation of Japan**

"Rawr rawr, I'm Godzilla."

"Jackson, what are you doing?"

"Taking a picture for the kids."

The synthesized sound of a digital camera's shutter echoed unnaturally against the backdrop of suppressed gunfire.

"I heard that Japanese phones have the shutter sound permanently activated because people were using the phones to take under-skirt photos of women.[2]"

"Horny bastards," Private First Class Paul Jackson of the Britannian Queen's Rangers, callsign Baikal, chuckled as he examined the picture he had taken on the battered nokia that was his phone. Even to the backdrop of floodlights and gunfire, the Eiffel Tower-inspired Tokyo Tower still looked beautiful, a shining tower of shimmering light against the Tokyo skyline. Miraculously, most of the lights that powered the tower remained largely functional.

Lit up by numerous LED lights, the orange tower seemed to exude a soft warmth against the early morning sky on an otherwise chilly night.

The sight, of course, was obscured by the green dinosaur toy that Jackson had menacingly placed next to the tower.

Satisfied, he turned off the camera phone and stowed it away as he sat down on a bullet-ridden police car.

"Hungry?"

Looking up, Jackson instinctively grabbed the wrapped piece of bakery bread that his comrade, Corporal Kusui, callsign Ontario, hurled to him from behind the pockmarked counter of a FamilyMart. Though the glass electric doors had long since broken, the echoing electric tone that accompanied the door's opening played as soon as Jackson neared the door.

Ripping apart the plastic wrap, Jackson examined the piece of bread. The piece of bread was soft to the touch, though covered by a slightly crisscrossed crust, almost resembling a cantaloupe.

"It's custard," Kusui said with a laugh as he noticed Jackson's hesitation. "We used to eat it in Taiwan."

Jackson bit into it. The custard was crunchy, but also sweet and buttery.

"This is pretty good," Jackson remarked. "How do you say it in Chinese?"

Kusui sighed. "I'm not Chinese, remember?"

Jackson blinked in surprise, and then in embarrassment. "Oh yeah. Sorry." To be fair, Kusui looked far closer to the pacific islanders of Oceania than Han Chinese. Dark and wide-eyed, they had far more in common with the inhabitants of the Philippines than the farmers on the Chinese mainland. Since the first arrival of the Dutch and then the Chinese and then the Japanese and then the Chinese again, the aboriginal Taiwanese had met with repeated invasions of their land by foreigners, most of which attempted to convert them to their respective cultures by force. Kusui, descendants of resistance fighters from the largest of the Aboriginal Taiwanese ethnic groups, had fled to Britannia after aboriginal student protests at Taipei had been violently suppressed by Chinese forces. As a result, Suming Kusui had never learned a word of what his parents referred to as the "Chinese oppressors."

"You gotta remember these things, man." Unscrewing the cap off what looked like a bottle of coffee, Kusui gulped down the contents of the bottle.

"What a day, huh?"

It had been quite a day. Elements of the Queen's Rangers had been deployed to seize vital assets ahead of the main force, and Jackson's company had been deployed to seize Tokyo Tower. Though it no longer occupied such a prominent place in the Tokyo skyline, the tower still managed cell phone, television and radio transmissions within much of Tokyo's inner city. The JSDF had realized as well, judging by the roadblocks and checkpoints that the Rangers had fought through.

In the end, though, the superior training and equipment of the Rangers had prevailed, and the complex below the tower lay largely in their hands.

Jackson sighed. "Those knightmares, though…"

"Putting us out of business, those guys are," Kusui complained.

From their place on top of Tokyo Tower, Kusui and Jackson had witnessed the destruction that the "Glasgow" had wreaked on what had previously seemed like solid Japanese defenses. With the firepower of a tank and the mobility of an infantryman, those humanoid robots made even the M-33 Clinton that had seemed like the forefront of armored warfare seem obsolete.

"With those things, the war'll be over in a month," Kusui muttered.

Jackson picked up a postcard that almost screamed "Greetings from Tokyo" in big rainbow colors. "You'd rather it be longer?" As far as Jackson was concerned, the faster he could get back to his children, the better.

"Nahhh…but doesn't it feel like we're getting left behind? God knows we're never going to get any funding once these knightmares win the war."

"That's what they said when tanks came out," Jackson returned in a thoughtful tone. "But I don't think we're obsolete, and I don't think we ever will be. Wars are won by infantry. You can bring in cool gadgets that help infantry fight, and cool gadgets to get rid of enemy infantry, but at the end of it, war is won by the boots on the ground."

"Ehhh," Kusui responded, less than convinced. A beam of light caused them both to look up, hands tightening on their weapons—just as, with a burst of pulverized gravel, a giant hulking shape agilely negotiated the destroyed cars and broken sandbags.

Both Kusui and Jackson stared like deer in the headlights as, with a blip, the armor plates on the Glasgow Knightmare Frame's factspheres receded, revealing the glowing, pulsating center sensor.

A voice suddenly emanated from the Glasgow's head, a rather youthful, boyish voice. Jackson had been expecting an electronic or at least a lower-pitched voice. "Queen's Rangers?"

"Yessir," Jackson replied, "Callsign Baikal, Queen's Rangers."

Kusui saluted as well. "Ontario, Queen's Rangers."

"1st Lieutenant Joey Jones, E troop, 1st Squadron of the Britannian Imperial Knightmare Corps. It's an honor meeting actual members of the Queen's Rangers," the voice returned, the enthusiasm in it like that of a raw recruit holding a weapon for the first time.

"The honor is ours," Jackson replied with a grin. The Queen's Rangers were not the most elite of the Britannian special forces, but they were close, and their exploits all over the world were common knowledge, even out of Britannia. A rather popular video games series starring the Rangers had largely solidified the Ranger's reputation to the teenage gamer crowd. "So what brings you here, Lieutenant Jones?"

"I'm here escorting the resupply unit," Lieutenant Jones explained. Even as he spoke, an APC drove down the road. Unlike the Knightmare, which had nimbly maneuvered around the damaged cars, the APC simply drove over them as several army officers leapt out.

"Resupply unit, dispensing supplies and supply accessories," the officer in front reported cheerily as he leapt down from the APC's back. "Though it seems like you guys are already pretty well-supplied," he noted, glancing at the FamilyMart food that Kusui and Jackson held in their hands.

"Is that food?"

"Oh, is that one of those knightmares?"

"Oh, the Meals on Wheels."

As if attracted by the smell, the rest of Kusui and Jackson's unit flocked towards the APC. Jackson rummaged through the boxes of ammunition and replacement weaponry the APC carried as he spoke with the resupply officer.

"So how are we doing against the Japs?"

"Got 'em on the run," the resupply officer replied proudly, as if he had personally routed the Japanese army. "They're really putting up a fight, but we've got a solid beachhead. I heard the Northern and Southern Expeditionary forces are doing even better."

"Well, we are tying down half the JSDF right here." Most of the JSDF had been deployed to defend the capitol.

"So once we take Tokyo, the war'll be done and we'll all go home, innit?"

Jackson said nothing. He wished it were true. However, unlike his father and predecessor, a prudent and subdued businessman, Japanese Prime Minister Genbu Kururugi was a blunt man with a dogged determination. Knowing him, the Japanese government had long since vacated into the countryside in an attempt to maintain its resistance. Somehow, Jackson doubted that this kind of man would readily give up with the fall of Tokyo. In fact, Jackson doubted that this kind of man would readily give up, ever.

His attempt to say it, however, was interrupted by the arrival of a man into the assembled men.

"Gentlemen, start parcking," Captain Mantarankis barked as he looked around. "We're heading back to headquarters for some shuteye."

"What about here?"

"The Army'll take over for us. We have a new assignment as soon as we're done."

"Go on…"

"I can't tell you," Mantarankis replied coyly, sticking an outstretched pinky near the corner of his mouth in a pose that would certainly have been more seductive on somebody far less muscular, bearded and male than Stephen Mantarankis.

"Such a cocktease," Kusui groaned as he paused to grab a drink from the FamilyMart.

"To be honest, I don't really know myself. But apparently it's from pretty high up," Mantarankis continued in a more serious tone.

With a heave, Jackson shouldered his rifle.

"Sleep, and then something important. Sounds good enough to me," he commented. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out his camera phone and flipped it open. Lit by the backlight, a grainy, poorly-taken picture of a young woman and two small children waved up at him.

"I'm going to have to learn how to use a camera when I get back home," Jackson murmured to himself with a smile as he snapped the phone closed and tucked it back behind the magazine in his breast pocket.

He hoped he would have the opportunity to do so.

* * *

><p><strong>Sunday, February 6th, 2010 A.T.B., 0800 Hours Tokyo Time<strong>

**Kururugi Family Compound, Nation of Japan**

"Morning, Sasaki."

"M-morning, milady," Takasu Sasaki replied as he struggled to keep up with Fujimura Taiga's swift pace.

"How is the battle going?"

"Our forces are…not doing as well as they could be."

"Does that mean we are being defeated?

Sasaki looked down. "I'm afraid so, milady."

"Any news on any evacuation?"

"None, milady."

"Keep me posted if you hear anything, from father or anyone else."

"Of course, milady." As Fujimura Taiga quickened her pace even further, Sasaki stared in a mixture of wonder and respect at the girl who, only 24 hours ago, had been complaining about an overabundance of leeks in her breakfast.

Seemingly overnight, the impulsive and quirky girl that Sasaki had once considered a case of incurable ADHD had changed into a lady of _Oyabun_ material.

Sasaki should have seen it coming. After all, for all of his stubbornness, poor temper and caprices, Fujimura Raiga was, after all, the man behind the the largest of the Japanese "Chivalric groups," the Fujimura Group.

It was, of course, not an act. Fujimura Raiga was genuinely the overbearing father, irritable old man, and demanding leader that he normally was, just as Fujimura Taiga was most certainly the hyperactive, impulsive, and hot-blooded girl that she normally was.

In fact, Sasaki doubted either would have the attention span to fake any personality that was not their own.

Yet the cool-headedness and leadership that both father and daughter exhibited in times of stress was as genuine as the quirks they showed in safer times.

For all their eccentricities, both Fujimura at heart were people of sound judgment.

It was this side of the Fujimura that, several years ago, had led the irresponsible, petty delinquent that had been Takasu Sasaki to dedicate his loyalty to Fujimura Raiga.

A loyalty which Sasaki was now willing to devote to Fujimura Taiga.

With a salute, the two old guard soldiers slid open the screen door into the main building of the Kururugi Clan Compound.

"Suzaku hasn't come out?"

Sasaki lowered his head. "Master Kururugi, I am afraid, has not come out yet."

The commotion in the main building was obvious as soon as they entered. Soldiers and servants whispered to each other nervously. Since yesterday, they had been trying to convince Suzaku Kururugi, son of the Prime Minister, to open the door to the safe house into which he had shut himself. Accompanied by the Britannian brother and sister who were his best friends, Kururugi had refused to open the door despite the pleas and remonstrations of the family servants.

The conversations within the building were whispered and confused.

"—apparently an evacuation order is in place—" It appeared the servants knew that the battle in Tokyo was not going in favor of the JSDF.

"—he'll have to come out eventually—" Sasaki doubted it. Like all safe houses, the Kururugi Compound's safehouse was meant to defend against anything from a home invasion to a carpet bombing, and it most likely held sufficient food and drink to last at least a week.

"—must be that Britannian boy."

"—That boy has been corrupting the young master—"

Sasaki felt a stir of irritation. The snide, bookish Britannian Prince that had been living as a political hostage at the Kururugi Complex for over a year had always been a figure of mystery, in no small part because none of the servants had made any attempt to acquaint themselves with the boy outside of providing for basic necessities. It was not unexpected that they scapegoat him now.

Though Sasaki himself did not know if it was in fact the influence of the Britannian boy, he felt a stir of anger. As a half-Korean child born out of an extramarital affair with stereotypically "delinquent" looks, he had ample experience with people who judged him while making no attempt to know him. Perhaps it was self-fulfilling prophecy that he had ended up as a delinquent among delinquents, a member of the Yakuza. He would make sure his son would not be treated in the same way.

Sergeant Kikuchi, the commander of the compound guards, bowed as Taiga and Sasaki reached the entrance to the Safe House, a heavy concrete and iron structure that, despite its decorations, looked out of place in the Spartan, ascetic wood and paper that defined a Japanese architectural culture dedicated to simplicity and transience.

"Has Suzaku come out yet?"

Kikuchi shook his head helplessly. "We've been trying to talk to him, but he refuses to open the door."

"Has he said anything about why he's doing it?"

"Tell you the truth, he doesn't seem quite sure himself," Kikuchi sighed. "The Young Master usually doesn't act this childish…this is the worst time for him to act like this."

"Let me try to talk to him," Taiga ordered as she walked over to the intercom next to the door.

"Oy, Suzaku," she spoke into the intercom. A moment of silence later, the intercom responded with a crackly rendition of the voice of Suzaku Kururugi.

"That you, Tiger?"

"I told you not to call me tha—" taking a deep breath, Taiga forced a smile that wouldn't transmit across the intercom anyway. It didn't do much to hide her irritation.

"Suzaku, what are you doing in there? Is one of us trying to kill you or something?"

For an uncomfortably long moment of silence, Sasaki, Taiga, Sergeant Kikuchi and the servants all crowded together in an attempt to hear the intercom before it finally reactivated.

"To, um…Lelouch, what is this word? No, of course I don't know it, I'm ten—" The intercom turned off for a few moments before turning back on.

"To, um, facilitate the, err, maintenance of diplomatic, um, protocol, and to ensure the safety of, erm, Princess Sumeragi Kikyo and her daughter."

Taiga's confusion was not shared by anyone else in the room, and a wave of furious whispers flowed over the crowd. In an attempt to guarantee peace between the newly-restored nation of Japan and the Holy Empire of Britannia, Genbu Kururugi's father and predecessor, Shigekuni Kururugi, had married Kikyo Sumeragi, granddaughter of the deposed Emperor, to the 96th Emperor, a man several decades her senior. The overthrow of the emperor, the ensuing conflict, and the ascension of the Emperor's son, the 98th Emperor, Charles zi Britannia, had led to tensions between the nations until, in an unusual act of conciliation, Charles had sent a Britannian Prince and Princess to Japan a year ago—the very brother and sister that were with Suzaku inside the safe room.

_So this IS the Britannian boy's doing,_ Sasaki thought to himself. The Young Master did not seem to know half the words he was saying, and Sasaki couldn't blame him—he certainly wouldn't have known those words at age ten, though that also had something to do with his decision to stop attending certain classes at school.

"Suzaku, let me talk to you and that Britannian boy," Taiga said with an imploring tone and annoyed expression on her face.

"Hang on." There was a moment of silence once more, silence that Sasaki suspected consisted of a hurried discussion inside the safe room. Finally, the intercom responded, this time in the voice of the Britannian boy.

"Alright, but order the servants and guards away."

Taiga turned around and nodded to Sasaki. Walking in front of the crowd, Sasaki gently prodded forwards.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, back to your stations. You want to see the Young master, right? Then get out of here. Get something to eat. Whatever."

"Alright," Taiga sighed as, a few minutes later, she and Sasaki stood in a now-empty room. Sasaki could see Kikuchi and some of the others peeking or listening in, judging by the silhouettes that piled themselves up against the screen door.

"Your bodyguard too," the boy said.

"How did you—oh," Taiga responded as she looked up at the closed-circuit camera that peeked down at them. Sasaki was tempted to rip the camera out of its socket—but that would only serve to make sure that the safe room door would never open until kingdom come.

"Well, if you say so," Sasaki replied as he quickly stepped through the door to stare at the surprised servants, who hurried away from the paper screen where they had been piled moments before.

From a distance, Sasaki watched as the iron doors slowly opened—a defensive measure meant to slow down an attacker. The door would, however, close in a moment if the occupants demanded it. Putting a hand out to block Sergeant Kikuchi, Sasaki glared at the servants who seemed to be readying for a charge.

"Could you guys trust the young masters a little more?"

With a slightly petulant sigh, Kikuchi fell back as, crossing his arms, Sasaki awaited the return of his charge.

* * *

><p>The first thing that hit Fujimura Taiga was the smell.<p>

"Oh god," she muttered, almost retching, as she entered the safe room—a completely metal-lined room lit with raw fluorescent lights.

"I guess Natto[3] was not a good idea," Suzaku Kururugi said in lieu of apology as he grinned a sheepish grin.

"No, no it wasn't," the Britannian boy replied from where he was sitting next to a computer. Taiga took a moment to look around the safe house. Several firearms and even what looked like a machete lay hung up on nearby racks, while the shelves were full of canned foods, ammunition, basic toiletries and a few machines. Looking around, the occupants could probably have survived a good month inside without any worries.

Suzaku and the Britannian boy both looked dirty, their clothes marked by dirt and grass stains. In comparison, though, the boy's sister, Nunnally, looked remarkably clean, dressed in a simple, if pretty dress and seated on her omnipresent wheelchair. In the harsh surroundings, she looked like a flower on a battlefield.

"Morning, Fujimura-_san_," Nunnally said, once again with the unnerving honorific. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Erm, alright," Taiga responded, as Suzaku ran over to help, pouring a kettle of boiling water into several tea-bagged ceramic mugs.

It felt slightly surreal, drinking tea out of mugs in the middle of what could have passed for a postapocalyptic bunker.

In an attempt to break the awkward, tense silence, Taiga put down her mug as she smiled slightly awkwardly.

"So, how are things going with you guys?"

"We'd be slightly better off if Suzaku hadn't decided he had a craving for Natto," the Britannian boy muttered.

Suzaku smiled sheepishly. "it did taste good, though, right, Lelouch?"

Lelouch grunted grudgingly in response.

"Seriously, though, what are you guys doing in here? We might not be doing the best at this moment, but we're starting to slow the Britannians down. If anything, my father or your Prime Minister Kururugi will send someone to evacuate us."

"To evacuate YOU," Lelouch responded grimly.

"What do you mean? I don't think he'd send just one helicopter—"

"—and kill me and Nunnally," Lelouch interrupted.

"…what?"

"…did you forget? We are here as hostages to Prime Minister Kururugi and the nation of Japan, to ensure Britannia will not invade, just as Princess Sumeragi was sent to Britannia to ensure Japan will not invade."

Taiga nodded slowly. "…but Britannia has invaded."

"Exactly."

Taiga's eyes slowly widened—and then she shook her head. Next to her, Suzaku also shook her head.

"There's no way Father would do that."

"Yeah, Lelouch…you two are children. And you're Suzaku's best friends—"

"Genbu Kururugi is a man of honor," Lelouch responded darkly. "If his honor is slighted, he will respond in kind."

Taiga shook her head. "No way. I'm sure your parents have done something to make sure you won't be killed, right? And Prime Minister Kururugi has done something to make sure Princess Sumeragi in Britannia won't be killed—"

"Our mother is dead," Lelouch replied simply.

"Your father—"

"Before he sent us to this country, the last thing our father told me was this: 'You are dead. You have been dead since the day you were born. You have not lived a single moment. A dead man has no rights.'"

Suzaku almost dropped his own mug. "No way…"

"That can't be," Taiga managed, "No father would consign his own children to death like that."

Lelouch's gaze didn't waver.

"He already has."

A moment of silence ensued as Taiga and Suzaku both opened their mouths and closed them again. Taiga's hands threatened to crush the ceramic handle of her mug. _What kind of father would do that?!_ How could a father knowingly send his child towards his death? It was obvious that Lelouch and Nunnally's father was in a high position for them to be sent over as equivalents to the Princess Sumeragi—but there was no way somebody who would willingly throw away their children could be deserving of their position.

Out of nowhere, Taiga slammed her mug onto the table as she stood up angrily.

"…Then if your father won't protect you, then my father will," she said, glaring at Lelouch. "My father is Fujimura Raiga, in control of 43% of the economy of the Nation of Japan, and an elder of Kyoto House."

Suzaku, though, looked convinced. "Tiger, when's the last time your dad has agreed with you on anything? Ever?"

Spinning around, Taiga shot a glare at Suzaku that caused him to wilt on the spot. "I'll make him." Turning back to Lelouch, Taiga looked at the suddenly-nervous Britannian boy in the eyes.

"Will you trust me?"

Even the normally bratty Britannian boy looked slightly awestruck as he attempted to retain a calm expression. "…Do you swear?"

"I do."

Slowly, Lelouch looked away.

"…fine. Do whatever."

Taiga grinned, a grin, unbeknownst to her, caused Suzaku to shiver as she raised a clenched fist.

"Excellent. And if I ever find your father, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind. Now let's go, I'm getting sick of the smell of Natto."

* * *

><p><strong>Sunday, February 6th, 2010 A.T.B., 0845 Hours Tokyo Time<strong>

**Tokyo Airspace**

"Lord V.V., we are now entering Britannian-occupied Japanese Airspace."

"Very good, carry on," V.V. said absent-mindedly as he looked outside the window. With a roar, one of the two Britannian jets that had escorted them from Manila moved aside as Tokyo, the capital of the nation of Japan, loomed.

On first glance, Tokyo did not seem too badly harmed—Tokyo Tower looked as imposing as ever, as did the not-yet-completed Tokyo Skytree. However, on closer inspection, it became possible to see the plumes of smoke and burning buildings—testament to the furious street-to-street fighting that was currently raging throughout the city. In the crowded streets, the Knightmares of Knight of One Bismark Waldstein's 1st Squadron lost a large portion of their mobility, and so the battle was going painfully slowly compared to the victories in Hokkaido and southern Honshu and Kyushu.

V.V. glanced at the orange-haired, cat-eyed man that was happily humming a tune as he looked out the window. "Glad to be home?"

Uryu Ryuunosuke laughed pleasantly. "Heh, I don't mind it."

"Not much of a nationalist, was I?"

"That's racist," Uryu replied happily, "Japanese people look the same inside as anyone else."

V.V. laughed despite his discomfort. That phrase would have sounded perfectly innocuous in the mouth of anyone else except Uryu Ryuunosuke, the "Leopard Serial Killer" that had committed a string of murders all across Honshu before mysteriously disappearing. If the Los Angeles Knight Police, Moscow FSB, Persian Imperial Police, Area 6 Police at Bogota, and Quebec Gendarmes had somehow met and exchanged information on a string of mysterious murders, they might be able to uncover a little bit more of the trail of bodies that Uryu had left behind.

"As disgusting as you are," V.V. chuckled, "You are an honest man. And there are precious few of those out there."

"I thank you for the compliment," Uryu responded cheerily.

V.V. chuckled as he leaned back into his seat. _And now you choose to act Japanese_?

* * *

><p>In the cockpit, the pilot consulted his radio.<p>

"Britannian Flight Control, this is Flight GEF-02, coming in for landing."

"GEF-02, this is flight control, we copy. Good to see you're still in one piece."

"GEF-02 here, we copy. We'll be coming in on Haneda Airport Runway 3 as planned."

"Err, negative, GEF-02, we've got reports of JSDF infantry and anti-air in the vicinity. Repeat, you're negative for Haneda Airport. Hostiles in the vicinity."

"Copy, Flight Control, so what's the plan?"

"GEF-02, we've cleared an airstrip for you at a nearby private airstrip, code 4B, is that fine with you?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

"Alright, I'm sending the data over to command. Best of luck."

"Alright, see you there."

* * *

><p><strong>Tokyo Air Traffic Control Center<strong>

**Tokorozawa, Saitama Prefecture, Nation of Japan**

"See you there. Flight Control, out." The Britannian Colonel smiled as he switched out the radio. He looked up, smiling, proud of having done his job—and then blinked.

The Air Traffic Control Center's control room looked like a movie theatre, with steadily descending rows of computers terminating in a vast LCD screen showing the countless flights that crisscrossed Japanese airspace every day.

And, slumped over each of the consoles was the body of a Britannian soldier.

And then he realized that there was something held against the back of his head.

"What—"

In the ringing silence that followed the gunshot, the body slumped to the floor, accompanied by the gentle ping of a handgun bullet's casing clattering on the floor.

Maiya Hisau pulled the body of the Britannian colonel aside, letting it fall to the floor like the rest of his unit.

Maiya Hisau was not a splendid magus and hypnosis a very weak piece of magecraft—but against a physically-fatigued individual with not an ounce of magic circuits such as the hapless Birtannian Colonel, it was more than sufficient for short periods of time. Typing into the Bloodstained console, Maiya nodded to nobody in particular as a blip of conformation appeared on the console.

"Maiya here."

"Did Fujimura's codes go through?"

"Yes. Kayneth's plane should now be landing at your airfield."

"Good job. Prepare the getaway car."

"Yes, sir."

Shouldering her rifle, Maiya Hisau moved with the practiced ease of an expert, disappearing in moments with a silence a ghost might envy, the remnants of Britannian Flight Control already forgotten behind her.

* * *

><p><strong>Tokyo Outskirts<strong>

**Greater Tokyo Area, Nation of Japan**

The wind was strong today.

The smoke Emiya Kiritsugu exhaled was instantly scattered into the wind as if it were nothing.

Holding the cigarette to his mouth, Kiritsugu took another controlled breath, blowing out the smoke that often choked early smokers. He had largely stopped smoking seven years ago, but the mannerisms and habits did not die quite so easily.

Sighing, Kiritsugu discarded the exhausted cigarette stub, grinding it under his boot as he looked through the scope of his Barrett .50[4].

Through the dark interior of the rifle scope, Britannian soldiers moved to and fro to prepare Airfield 4B for the arrival of Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi.

Carefully, Kiritsugu tuned the adjusting knobs on the scope to adjust for the wind. At a range of almost mile, even a slight wind would be enough to throw off a rifle bullet's trajectory by several meters.

Though the range was a bit too far for Kiritsugu to know for sure, he suspected that the Britannian soldiers were probably annoyed to have been brought to such a faraway airfield. He mentally thanked Fujimura Raiga for providing him with the passwords and identification for the Air Traffic Control Center.

Several years ago, Emiya Kiritsugu had saved Raiga from a dangerous situation in Russia when he killed the Cartel leader who had been targeting the Japanese _Oyabun_. Fujimura had not forgotten the debt and had since considered Kiritsugu a friend.

Kiritsugu chuckled. The Emiya Kiritsugu of seven years would have put a bullet through Raiga's head without hesitation if it would have saved more people.

It was fortunate he hadn't—Fujimura had provided much of the intel and identification for this operation.

Thus far, everything had gone well—using Fujimura's codes, Kiritsugu's longtime assistant Maiya had diverted Kayneth's plane to this obscure airfield, where Kiritsugu awaited. With luck, he would be able to eliminate one of the more dangerous masters of this war right off the bat.

Even if not, he would get a chance to witness the abilities of his future opponent. At the range of over a mile, Kiritsugu was confident in his ability to escape unscathed. And if all else failed…Kiritsugu's eyes flickered over the command seals on his palm.

"Target descending from 4,000 feet," Maiya's reported.

"Copy." Moving away from the rifle, Kiritsugu picked up the long, oblong tube leaning against the wall. The FIM-92 Stinger had been designed to allow infantry a good chance against aerial targets—and through Britannian involvement in various insurgencies and civil wars around the world, a fair amount of them had ended up in the Black Market. Compared to some of the weapons Kiritsugu used, a Stinger was quite easy to find.

If he could blow the plane out of the sky in one shot, it would be the cleanest possible kill as far as Kiritsugu was concerned. After all, with Natalia—Kiritsugu closed his eyes. Now was not the time to reminisce.

Putting his eye to the aiming reticle, Kiritsugu tracked the shapes that descended below the clouds—and clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"They brought escorts?"

"Seems like it."

It seemed as if somebody had been aware of the possibility of an aerial attack. Two Britannian Air Force jets accompanied the innocent-looking private jet, on the lookout for attack. It would be difficult to bring down the jet with a single Stinger with its two escorts on alert—and, if it failed, it was likely that Kiritsugu would not get a second shot.

"Alright, scratch the stinger, we'll have to take him out with the .50." It was a pity, but to drive the enemy off without learning anything would be even more wasteful.

"Roger. Target landing."

Kiritsugu returned to the .50. Through the scope, it seemed as if the jet was landing, its back wheels connecting with the ground, followed by its front wheel as it decelerated. As it slowed to a crawl, the Britannian soldiers and ground crew moved to guide the plane and its fighter escort to a stop.

"Switching to thermal," Kiritsugu muttered as he turned the appropriate dial. Immediately, the view from within the scope changed from color to black, dotted by white splotches—sources of heat, from vehicles to humans. As he adjusted the dial, the white splotches that represented humans glowed brighter and brighter as he adjusted the scope's sensitivity.

"Hostiles exiting."

Through the scope, Kiritsugu watched the Britannian soldiers push a set of wheeled steps towards the plane hatch. Kiritsugu closed his eyes. Right now, he was not Emiya Kiritsugu the father, nor was he Emiya Kiritsugu the husband—nor Emiya Kiritsugu, the person. He was simply the Magus Killer—and, across the scope, his target.

With practiced ease, his hands touched lightly on the trigger as he felt his heartbeat slow to a crawl.

Through the scope, the plane hatch opened.

Two individuals of roughly adult height exited first, a male and a female. Through the thermal scope, their temperature was roughly normal. Kiritsugu's trigger finger slackened. It seemed as if Lord Archibald had brought company.

"Target exiting."

Kiritsugu caught a glimpse of white, and his hands tightened on the grip.

Though it, too, registered heat, it was a different shade of white—the shade of a magic circuit in use.

It was something that nonmagus did not know and most magus did not care to know—the use of magic circuits had a subtle effect on temperature that could be detected on a thermographic camera[4] such as the .50's thermal weapon sight.

A master's set of command seals, which functioned as a set of permanently active circuits, were no exception.

Of course, the average magus didn't know and didn't care—there were spells that could not only identify a magic circuit in use, but the location of the user.

Then again, Emiya Kiritsugu was not your average magus. A thermal scope conferred its own advantages. For one, most magi did not see nonmagus weaponry as a threat. While the average magus went to extravagant extremes to detect enemy magecraft, none of Kiritsugu's targets had known to defend against a thermal scope.

And, it seemed, Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi did not either.

"Escorts unloading." Kiritsugu turned the scope towards the back of the plane. Sure enough, two Britannian soldiers appeared to be unloading what looked like a refrigerator. However, several meters away from the target, it probably wouldn't be a factor.

Focusing back onto the target, Kiritsugu's finger slowly tightened—

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"…Is he supposed to be this short?"

The shape walking down the steps did not fit the description of Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi. This shaped seemed a little bit shorter.

"Switching to visual," Kiritsugu murmured as the monochrome of the thermal scope returned to its normal shade.

"Kiritsugu, what do you see?"

_Is that a child?!_ There, centered in Kiritsugu's crosshairs, was a little girl, probably not even twelve years old. Her blonde hair was ridiculously long, falling almost to her waist.

Almost like Ilya.

Kiritsugu checked the thermal scope to be sure, hoping against all hope that the girl would be clear. It was not the case. That girl was most definitely a master.

_Far more people will be saved when I win the Grail War than ever. If there's ever a time to pull the trigger, it's now._

The Magus Killer was right, of course.

Yet Emiya Kiritsugu did not pull the trigger.

The target had already descended to the bottom of the stairs—the window of opportunity Kiritsugu had set was closing.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself. He had to shoot now. This was a perfect opportunity, one that would not present itself again. All the favors he had called in from Fujimura and his other contacts in the capital were for this moment.

_Open Fire, _the Magus Killer insisted in his mind. No internal voice spoke back in protest—the Magus Killer was the only voice Kiritsugu heard, the only voice he saw as reason.

He simply couldn't pull the trigger.

"Target moving for exit vehicle!"

_You've killed thousands of people for this. You can't fall short now, when your goal is in sight._

The target was lined out. All he had to do was pull the trigger.

_Shoot!_

"Kiritsugu!"

Closing his eyes, Kiritsugu felt his hand move on its own—and then, with a slow roar, the .50 discharged.

Almost instantly, he opened his eyes. The bullet moved with almost theatrical slowness—at more than a mile, the bullet took nearly two seconds to hit its mark. Almost instinctively, Kiritsugu knew the bullet had missed the mark—he hoped it did.

Hit in the shoulder, a Britannian soldier spun around, the force of the impact spinning him like a top.

"Target unharmed, hostiles closing in your direction!"

Maiya's voice hit Kiritsugu like a wave of cold water.

The Britannian soldiers, initially taken by surprise, were now closing in around the master as they opened fire at Kiritsugu's direction.

With a whine, a bullet shot over Kiritsugu's head—a wild shot from a weapon that hadn't been meant for this kind of range. The odds of it hitting Kiritsugu were astronomically low.

Yet, somehow, that was enough.

He was under fire.

Emiya Kiritsugu's thoughts did not disappear—they simply sunk under the surface, like Leonardo DiCaprio off the coast of Newfoundland, replaced with a cold, almost painful clarity.

Finally, reluctantly, the Magus Killer had been awakened.

Mechanically, he switched the filter to thermal vision.

Instantly, all the humans in the scope's field of view vanished.

Instead, they were replaced with moving bags of heat, no different from the engine of a machine, to be turned on or turned off with a switch.

If Emiya Kiritsugu could not kill a human, then he would have to stop treating them as humans.

"Cover me, Maiya," Kiritsugu ordered as he mentally adjusted for distance and wind speeds.

"Roger, firing."

With a loud, cracking report, one of the Britannian soldiers fell. Surprised, his fellows turned as Maiya downed another soldier with another shot.

That moment of confusion was all that the man known as the Magus Killer needed.

Adjusting the crosshairs in a single fluid moment, he pulled the trigger without hesitation.

Sniper Rifles are divided into two classifications—antipersonnel and anti-materiel.

The Barrett M82 is classified as an anti-materiel rifle. A descendant of the anti-tank rifles of the Great War, the M82 is intended for use against armored vehicles.

Against humans, it felt into the category of overkill.

At excess of 2,700 feet per second, the modified .50 bullet hit an unfortunate Britannian soldier who stood in the bullet's path with the force of 4 Kilojoules. Punching almost instantly through the lung and ribcage, the bullet exited cleanly through the back before impacting with the target with sufficient energy to pass right through and embed itself into the plane wall. It was joined in its final rest milliseconds later by a spray of brain matter.

"Target down," Maiya reported.

"Alright, let's go."

Ejecting the magazine out of the .50, Kiritsugu took one last look through the scope. His hand reached automatically to the scope switch to confirm the kill visually. However, at the last minute, his hand stopped.

Somehow, he suspected, he would not be able to forgive himself if he switched out.

Rushing to the edge of the building, Kiritsugu clambered over the edge of the four-story building and leapt without a second thought. As the ground loomed ahead, he put a hand out as, with a short burst of prana, his impact was limited to a soft thump. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Kiritsugu removed a pre-paid mobile phone as he clicked a button on instant-dial.

The explosion that ensued, while loud, seemed muted, almost subdued compared to the elaborated conflagrations designed by Hollywood.

An unskilled user of explosives will often attempt to compensate for lack of technical skill with sheer explosive force. However, such explosions are wasteful, loud and difficult to control.

However, skilled demolition experts can identify the vital parts of a structure as small as a residential house to a large scale business—foundations, load-bearing pillars, arches. By triggering controlled explosions in vital structures, a building could be brought down safely and with limited cost.

For somebody whose knowledge of explosives approached that of a demolitions expert, Emiya Kiritsugu could bring down a building with a fraction of that amount.

Allowing the remains of his attack to crumble, Emiya Kiritsugu ran to where his escape vehicle awaited.

* * *

><p>"Wow," Uryu Ryuunosuke grinned appreciatively as he rubbed a finger along the side of the Geass Directorate Jet and examined the brownish brain matter encrusted on it as Nalika looked on without interest. Being hit with an anti-tank gun was pretty messy.<p>

"When you're done playing with my brains, Uryu, you could help find the other half of my skull."

"Nah."

"Your honesty is your greatest strength and your greatest weakness," V.V. muttered, his voice made all the more irritating by the whistling caused by the ventilation in his skull.

"…Well? Is he gone?"

For a moment, it seemed as if nobody would respond—and then a slightly-surly voice spoke, seemingly out of nowhere.

"I can no longer sense him, my master."

"Good enough. Nalika, help me up. The bullet might have snapped my spine."

Uryu could only imagine the shock the Britannian-uniformed Geass Directorate soldiers must have felt as they watched the Indian girl yank the corpse to its feet, its head twisted at a bizarre angle before righting itself with a grotesque crack.

"Experience has taught me not to wear expensive clothes," V.V. sighed as he distastefully examined his shirt, now stained a mix of light yellow Cerebrospinal fluid, red blood and grayish brain matter.

"…Was it alright to let the enemy master go?"

The voice that once more spoke behind V.V. seemed dissatisfied as its source revealed itself.

A face so beautiful it almost seemed feminine, framed by tangled, wavy brown hair, marred only slightly by the surly expression it wore; a form-fitting, gleaming breastplate covered by a vast, deep-blue cloak; a large, elaborate shield emblazoned with countless images and symbols; an ashen spear ending in a tapered, bladed spearhead—this was Servant Lancer, the servant deemed fitting by Lord Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi.

"I could have killed him right there," Lancer muttered.

"It's better that he think that I am dead," V.V. replied with a smile. "If word gets out, it will be easier for me to act. I don't mind getting shot once or twice if it helps." Brushing himself off, V.V. walked over to the metallic box the soldiers had unloaded. Putting a hand on the lid, he pried the lid open slightly, instantly releasing a burst of cold air.

Satisfied, he closed the lid against with a smile. "As long as my precious cargo remains, they can shoot me all they want."

V.V. held up his palm and the command seals engraved on them and chuckled.

It seemed the Holy Grail had a sense of humor, for it had given him a command seal in the form of the two "wings" of the geass symbol, bisected by what looked like a spear. It also served as a careful reminder—the level of Lancer's skills were not reflective of a master Magus such as Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, but of someone unskilled in magecraft such as V.V. Against the "real" magus who would be fighting, V.V. would be at a disadvantage.

If the enemy masters thought he was dead, it would be all the more useful for him.

"Tch." Annoyed but compliant, Lancer idly twirled his spear before resting it on his shoulder.

"So what now, Master? When do we start fighting?"

V.V. smiled. "In due time, Lancer. But for now, let's meet Sir Bismark. There are a few things I'd like to borrow."

The silence on the rented Mitsubishi was heavy, like lead.

To be fair, Emiya Kiritsugu conceded, rides with Maiya were generally punctuated with long periods of silence.

Nevertheless, today Kiritsugu felt as if the silence was a lot more accusatory than normal.

He could hardly blame her.

Not only had he hesitated, he had almost turned a near-flawless operation into a disaster when he had missed. The Magus Killer of Seven years ago would not have done that.

It wasn't that his logic failed—Kiritsugu was absolutely sure he should have pulled the trigger.

It was just that Emiya Kiritsugu had been unable to do what the Magus Killer would have done in an instant.

Perhaps that was a problem. That Emiya Kiritsugu and the Magus Killer, once a single individual, had become two individuals. The Magus Killer was simply a title. He had never changed.

It was Kiritsugu who had changed.

"You've become too human."

Kiritsugu looked up in surprise.

"Humans are not meant to kill other humans," Maiya spoke as she changed lanes. "Your time with the Von Einzberns have made you too human."

Kiritsugu said nothing. It was true. In seven years, the handgun that had been carefully cultivated for two decades had been allowed to rust.

How could he have expected a gun to shoot straight if he hadn't oiled or maintained it?

And yet, why did he feel so reluctant to clean it again?

He was interrupted in his indecision by a ring on his prepaid phone.

"Mr. Fujimura?"

The old, scratchy voice on the other side of the phone (that in my head sounds Italian despite all evidence to the contrary) sounded way too energetic for a man of Raiga Fujimura's age. "I told you, Kiritsugu, call me Raiga. How'd it go?"

"Got him. I'm on my way to rendezvous with your subordinate now."

"Alright, I've given Sasaki all the documentation you'll need to get into any facility or building under my control. Consider it your second home, eh?"

"You really don't need to—"

"'Ey don't 'really don't need to' me, Kiritsugu, you saved my life at Vladivostok. For God's sakes, I'd marry my daughter to you if you weren't already married and if I wanted to kill you."

"You're too kind," Kiritsugu managed with a chuckle.

"Sasaki will be waiting for you at the foot of the complex. Wave the ID I gave you and the guards should let you through."

"Alright, thank you for your help, Mr. Fuj—Raiga."

"No problem. I have no idea what you're doing…but just call me if you need any help!"

As Kiritsugu closed the cheap prepaid flip-phone, he allowed himself a small smile. Fujimura Raiga's excitable personality was slightly infectious.

Closing his eyes, Kiritsugu leaned back in his seat as he pulled out the .50's magazine and examined a bullet. The burnished shell showed suggested signs of recent construction.

Unlike the stock bullets to the .50, these bullets had been modified. Each held the ground remnants of one of Kiritsugu's ribs—Emiya Kiritsugu's most powerful mystic code, the Origin Bullets.

Bound to Emiya Kiritsugu's origin—severing and binding—the meaning of Kiritsugu (切嗣). Not separating and reconnecting, like cutting and mending a wire, but severing and binding, like cutting and tying a rope into a knot—that is, to fundamentally alter the structure and purpose.

Its effect on the human body was devastating. Capillaries, nerves, muscles fibers would be wrapped into a nonfunctional mess. Against a magus with a working magic circuit system, in essence a vestigial nervous system, it was debilitating. Any magic circuit under use at the point of impact would be irreversibly and irretrievably rendered unusable.

There was no way the enemy master had survived. If the bullet had hit the master's magecraft-based defenses, the master would be debilitated for life. If the bullet had hit the master—Kiritsugu had never met a human being that had survived being shot by the Barrett.

_One master is down. I only need to this five more times._

He would pick up the access codes from Fujimura's assistant, and then he would return to Fuyuki.

He would do everything and anything to win the Holy Grail War.

He would pull the trigger five times, ten times, a hundred times..

He would kill everyone in his way, no matter who it was.

He would obtain the holy grail, no matter the cost.

And then he would never have to kill ever again.

* * *

><p><strong>Sunday, February 6th, 2010 A.T.B., 1005 Hours Tokyo Time<strong>

**Unspecified Location, Japanese Countryside, Nation of Japan**

"…The Eunuchs are reluctant to offer any ground help to us. They believe that committing troops into a ground engagement in Japan would reap few benefits. Of course, the thing they fear more are their loyal troops leaving the capital."

"As I expected. Start hinting that they will get a more favorable standing in the Sakuradite market should they involve themselves."

"Of course, Mr. Fujimura. Sawasaki out."

Fujimura Raiga turned silently away as the video screen returned to its passive screen saver, a rather stereotypical image of Mt. Fuji. Negotiations were always more difficult on the losing side—and, as much as it hurt Raiga to admit it, the JSDF was on the losing side.

"…Was it successful?"

"Afraid not, Yohane," Raiga replied tersely as his assistant and bodyguard, Yohane, fell in behind him.

A group of old guard soldiers saluted as Raiga and Yohane walked down the length of the hall and through the gate that led to the main situation room.

Almost instantly, the simplistic wood-and-paper screens were replaced with LCD screens.

JSDF and Old Guard officers intermingled freely, dark green and khaki green uniforms forming an ever-shifting camouflage pattern.

Hidden in the Japanese countryside, this was the true headquarters of the Japanese military. High Command officers debated strategies at various maps and projection screens; supply officers and quartermasters made feverish calls; technicians cross-examined, rewound and cross-examined again videos of the new humanoid robot that had been seen wrecking the Southern Army on Newsline; clerks ran back and forth with new memos and print-outs.

And at the center was Genbu Kururugi—Prime Minister of the Diet, leader of Kyoto House, Commander-in-chief of the JSDF and de facto leader of Japan.

For someone who didn't know Kururugi personally, he looked a man calmly assessing the situation, a leader still confident in ultimate victory despite a few early defeats.

Yet Fujimura Raiga was not afforded such luxury. Though Genbu's figure was indeed straight as a ramrod, something about his confident pose looked almost forced. The slight quivering of the lip and the rapid blinking was enough for Raiga to know that Genbu Kururugi was a man under pressure.

Walking quietly through the crowd, Raiga inclined his head towards Genbu, a measure of respect for a man over a decade his junior .

"I was just speaking with Atsushi Sawasaki in Luoyang," Raiga said quietly.

"What news?"

"The High Eunuchs that control China are not willing to commit troops without some guarantee of returns should they succeed such as a Sakuradite kickback or a discount."

"Those bats have sucked China clean, and now they wish to suck Japan clean? I will give them nothing more than what I have offered."

Raiga closed his eyes.

"It is hard to make allies when you are on the losing side, Prime Minister."

Genbu remained unmoved. "There will be no more concessions to the Chinese."

"In that case," Raiga replied, "Sawasaki and the Eunuchs suggested negotiations with Britannia in which you would guarantee the export of a certain percentage of all Sakuradite profits to Britannia in all times. That would be enough to mollify the Britannian Imperial Senate—"

"There will be no negotiations."

Undeterred, Raiga continued. "Prime Minister, our nation is losing this war—"

"But it is not defeated," Genbu interrupted in a steely tone.

"Our army is slowly being driven out of Tokyo, and we have suffered severe defeats in southern Honshu and Hokkaido, prime minister—"

"Fujimura, what is Japan? Is it its army?"

"Prime Minister—"

"Japan is its people, Fujimura. The Emperor of Britannia has insulted the honor of the nation of Japan and its people with this war. And the war will not end until Britannia has atoned for its dishonor."

Fujimura stared. "…even should our army be defeated and our citizenry be starving?"

Genbu's expression looked almost made of stone.

"As long as a single person who calls themselves Japanese lives, Japan has not been defeated!"

"…You would rather Japan and all its countrymen perish in battle before you are willing to forgive a slight to your honor?"

Genbu walked to the window and looked outside. Hidden in the countryside, the large complex was surrounded by farmer's fields—left fallow after the harvest, but ready for replanting in a few months.

"And what would you rather the Japanese do? Flee elsewhere, where they will be treated as stateless citizens and dirt? Flee to Europe and be shut up in the Ghettos like the Roma and Jews? Flee to the Middle Eastern Federation and their religious wars? Or would you rather we send them to the Chinese Federation, where they will live on the basis of the whims of men who are not men like the rest of that wretched people?! I would rather die than be forced into such extremes, and I would die before the Japanese people are forced into depravity such as that."

Fujimura said nothing. To some extent, Genbu was right—the Japanese would be relegated to a second class position if Japan fell—like the Chechnyans, or Tibetans, or Gypsies, or the Numbers.

But that Kururugi was willing to kill every person who called themselves Japanese before that happened—was that right?

Genbu Kururugi wasn't wrong—a nation is determined not by its borders, or by its army, but by its people. A country would exist as long as somebody called themselves Japanese.

So was not Genbu Kururugi destroying his country by committing its people to an unwinnable fight to the death?

Raiga shook his head. That was not true. Japan still had many great generals and the bulk of its force. Though the Britannias had introduced new technology, the advantage they conferred, like that of tanks in the Great European War, was only temporary. If Japan held on long enough, it could be able to win. It was defeatism to assume defeat before the battle is over.

"…Prime Minister, it is, however, a fact that the Britannians are closing in on your family complex near Mt. Fuji."

Kururugi said nothing. It was, after all, true. While the JSDF under General Oguchi was holding some semblance of its own in street-to-street fighting, the Britannians had made rapid progress outside of the Tokyo urban sprawl. At current projections, Britannian forces would reach the Kururugi compound in two days.

"It may be safer to evacuate everyone there to the countryside with us." Raiga allowed a bit of urgency to show in his voice. After all, his daughter, not to mention Suzaku's son and the two political hostages were at the Kururugi clan compound.

"…I have already ordered Sergeant Kikuchi to evacuate everyone at my family compound. Princess Kaguya will be sent to Osakabe in Shikoku. I will have Taiga and Suzaku brought back here."

Raiga concealed his sigh of relief. "Excellent. And where will the Britannian Prince and Princess stay?"

For a moment, Genbu looked a little furtive before closing his eyes. "There is no place for the Britannian Prince and Princess here."

"Then will you send them to live with Osakabe or the others?"

"…There is no place on the Helicopters for a Britannian."

It took a few moments for Raiga to understand the implication.

Raiga's pipe clattered to the ground. "Genbu…you're going to…?"

Genbu looked away. "I will make sure your daughter will not witness it."

"Are you mad, Genbu?! They're children!"

"So were countless Japanese children who served as the hostages to enemy _Daimyo_. They ought to be proud that they are dying to atone for their nation's honor."

"And what about the Princess Sumeragi and her daughter in Britannia, who served as political hostages? Would you have them killed as well?"

"The Britannians are the ones who dishonorably attacked us—they have no reason to kill our hostages. And if they do, it will only serve to show their dishonor to the world!"

"Do you think the Britannians care for honor? Do you think they waited for an honorable opinion when they crushed the Gran Colombians a hundred years ago? Or the Spaniards or the Filipino insurgents?! Those children are your son's best friends for fuck's sakes—"

And then, with a loud bang, Genbu slammed a shaking fist onto a nearby table. "I will NOT allow someone to make a mockery of the honor of Japan while I am Prime Minister! The decision stands!"

Raiga closed his eyes as Genbu walked off. That was something Genbu Kururugi could not understand. For the man whose party had been elected for its hard-line attitude towards those who trampled Japan's honor abroad, there was no such thing as retreat. What Genbu Kururugi believed was as unmoving as Mt. Fuji, as unambiguous as black and white. For better or for worse, this was the man who led Japan.

But Raiga could not allow it.

Lelouch and Nunnally Vi Britannia were very minor members of royalty in Emperor Charles' vast family. However, they were the only things preventing Britannia from escalating the conflict. As of now, this war was a war between nations—in the era of supernations, such wars were normal, almost expected—skirmishes in Africa, the Caucasus, and Asia were considered by some political theorists to be a part of the "balance of power." As was the case in Annam, an extended engagement would eventually lead to loss of public support and the withdrawal of troops.

However, should the prince and princess be executed—with the murder of two members of royalty, children no less, Britannian opinion would be permanently turned against the Nation of Japan.

There would be no chance that domestic opinion would turn against the Britannian military.

It would essentially mean a life-and-death struggle between Japan and Britannia—a war Raiga suspected Japan could not win.

Reaching into his robe sleeve, Raiga removed his phone. For a moment, he hesitated.

In doing this, he would be acting directly against the prime minister, the head of the military.

He would be making enemies with the most powerful person in Japan.

But, compared with the possibility of the complete destruction of Japan—

Fujimura Raiga clicked the dial button.

* * *

><p><strong>Kururugi Family Compound<strong>

"Move the documents from the library on board the APCs! Burn or destroy anything that won't fit! We're lifting off in 25 minutes!"

Sergeant Kikuchi looked on the verge of a panic attack as he directed the various servants and soldiers, all of whom were moving or lifting everything from food supplies to weapons to books.

With a convoy waiting at the bottom of the hill, the Kururugi compound was preparing for evacuation.

"Geez, where is Sasaki when you need him?" Fujimura Taiga muttered to herself as she weaved through the knots of servants and soldiers-turned-porters like a vietnamese child running through the minefield that used to be the family farm.

"Probably run off to call his wife again," Taiga mused as she glanced across the veranda where Sergeant Kikuchi was doing what he could to organize the evacuation process.

At the moment, Sergeant Kikuchi seemed to be discussing something with another Old Guard soldier—almost arguing, by his expression of disbelief.

Now that she thought about, she hadn't in fact packed any of her own things. Turning around, she elbowed her way through the walkway towards the residential part of the complex.

With most of the servants devoted to moving the documents in the library, the residential section was almost deserted. It was almost lonely, the way the normally busy building was now almost devoid of life.

"Taiga?"

Taiga almost jumped as she heard the voice next to her.

"Oh, it's just you, Suzaku," Taiga remarked with a breath of relief. It seemed the Britannian boy and Nunnally were there as well. "What are you doing here?"

"Packing?"

Taiga turned to the Britannian Boy and Nunnally. "Then what about you two?"

"I'd pack my things if I had anything to pack," the Britannian boy replied darkly. Taiga looked away to hide her expression of irritation. This kid was smart, but he wasn't cute at all. It was like somebody had taken a lifetime's worth of periods and estrogen and bundled into one ten year old.

"Well hurry up, we've only got 25 minutes. You don't want to get left behind."

As the three disappeared into the building, Taiga looked around the empty hall. Though she only came here on holidays and when her father dragged her there, Taiga felt a sense of loss at seeing the rooms she had (however reluctantly) called home empty.

_I guess I could come back when this is over…_

"Milady?"

Taiga turned around as Sergeant Kikuchi walked in, his face slightly drawn.

"Are you alright, sergeant?"

Kikuchi flashed what he probably intended to be a smile. "Just a little under the weather. Milady, have you seen the Young Master?"

"Yeah, he's inside. He might have a lot of stuff to carry."

"Ah, I see. And are the Britannian children with him?"

Taiga blinked. It was unusual for anyone in the compound to ask about the location of Nunnally and her brother.

"Yeah."

Kikuchi managed a slightly-sweaty smile as he nodded to the soldier behind him.

"Thank you, milady. Would you like to head to the Convoy?"

"Nah, I still need to pack. I can take you to them if you want."

"That's fine," Kikuchi replied a little too quickly. "I'll have corporal Maeda escort you to the convoy."

"But I haven't packed yet—"

"I insist, milady." The urgency in Kikuchi's voice seemed unusual given the time remaining.

"I don't want to…" and then Taiga's voice trailed off as she realized something. There were no servants with Kikuchi, simply soldiers. And, in their hands were the rifles they had put down earlier. It was almost as if they were going into battle.

"…_did you forget? We are here as hostages to Prime Minister Kururugi and the nation of Japan, to ensure Britannia will not invade, just as Princess Sumeragi was sent to Britannia to ensure Japan will not invade."_

Taiga felt as if somebody had doused her with a bucket of water. _Wait._

Sergeant Kikuchi hadn't been asking about Suzaku. He had been asking about Nunnally and the Britannian boy.

The soldiers at the Kururugi Compound were not JSDF. They were the Old Guard, the unofficial military of Japan.

Under the command of Kyoto House.

And the head of Kyoto House was Genbu Kururugi.

"_Genbu Kururugi is a man of honor. If his honor is slighted, he will respond in kind_."

Taiga looked into Sergeant Kikuchi's eyes, scared of what she would see. The normally serious but kind soldier's eyes were now hard, almost glassy. The men with him, too, held their weapons as if prepared to use them.

Taking a deep breath, Taiga took a step forwards, as if to go with Corporal Maeda. Sergeant Kikuchi seemed relieved—and then, spinning around, Taiga broke into a full sprint into the building.

* * *

><p>The steps that led up to the Kururugi home seemed unending.<p>

Sasaki Takasu mentally cursed whoever had decided against building an actual road up the mountain as opposed to a thousand goddamn steps.

An old guard officer turned, surprised, as Sasaki charged up the steps. "Sasaki, what—"

"Out of my way!"

Elbowing the soldier aside, Sasaki barreled up the steps with a gasp of breath as his hands tightened sweatily on the phone in his hands.

"_The Prime Minister is planning on killing the hostages._

_If he does that, this war will become unwinnable._

_Take Taiga and those children and leave."_

Sasaki glared at the servants and soldiers with suspicion in between breaths as he headed towards the end of the steps.

"_There is nobody else I can trust in that facility but you, Sasaki!"_

General Oguchi of the JSDF distrusted the old guard because they were, in essence, an autonomous private army—just like the Kwantung army that had started war with China and Britannia.

And, more importantly, they were not responsible to any chain of command, nor to anyone in office.

They were loyal only to who they saw as fitting—Kyoto House.

Those at the Kururugi Family Compound would be, naturally, loyal to Genbu Kururugi.

Reaching into his long coat for the handgun in his shoulder holster, Sasaki scrambled over the top of the stairs.

Right now, everybody in the compound, as far as Sasaki was concerned, was an enemy. He served the Fujimura group—anyone the _Oyabun_ acted against was an enemy.

Running past the confused servants, Sasaki prayed he would arrive on time.

* * *

><p>Suzaku Kururugi was almost knocked off his feet as, with a crash, the paper screen to his room was slammed aside.<p>

"Tiger?!"

It was a testament to Fujimura Taiga's urgency that she ignored her much-hated nickname.

"Fujimura-_san_?" Nunnally exclaimed as she heard Taiga's panting.

Lelouch, as well, stared. "What—"

"Y…" Taiga took a deep breath. "You were right, Britannian—"

"—Lelouch!"

"—Genbu is trying to kill you!"

Suzaku looked up sharply, his eyes showing his obvious disbelief. "Father?!"

"Yes," Taiga panted as, with one smooth movement, she lifted Nunnally off her feet. "We need to go!"

"—Young Master!"

Turning around sharply, Taiga grabbed the Shinai that lay nearby and raised it—just as Sergeant Kikuchi barreled in, his breath ragged, followed by his men.

"Milady, young master, please step away from the Britannians at once!"

In alarm, Lelouch stumbled backwards—just as Suzaku stepped in front of him.

"…Sergeant, is this true?"

"What do you mean, young master?"

"That you're planning on killing Lelouch and Nunnally under my father's orders?"

For a moment, Sergeant Kikuchi remained silent—and then, breaking into a smile that held little substance, Kikuchi laughed. "Of course not. We are simply assigning them a different transport—"

"He's lying," Taiga snapped.

Sergeant Kikuchi stepped forwards. "It's true—"

"…Then give Fujimura-_san_ your weapons," Lelouch demanded. "If you truly mean no harm to us, you will not need those weapons."

For a moment, Sergeant Kikuchi could simply stare. With a nod to his men, Kikuchi raised his own rifle as the soldier fanned out.

"Milady, young master, I insist you come with us."

In desperation, Taiga held her Shinai in front of her. It was, however, a futile effort. Meant to limit the damage of practice fights, the bamboo blade called a Shinai intentionally diffuses and weakens the force of a blow. Even the most somebody who could have qualified for the nationals such as Fujimura Taiga could do would be a bruise or two. The paper tiger-printed shinai that had kept her out of the nationals in the first place roared with a loud crack and little else. Slowly, the soldiers closed in nervously—and then, with another loud bang, a new shape crashed through the paper screen.

"Step Back!"

Never had Fujimura Taiga been so glad to see Takasu Sasaki as now as he stepped in, handgun in hand. Shoving his way through the soldiers, he stepped in front of Taiga, pointing his handgun at Kikuchi. "Drop your weapons!"

In response, Kikuchi and the soldiers raised their own guns. "Drop YOUR weapons!"

"Sasaki, they're trying to kill—"

"—I know," Sasaki murmured as he held his arm in front of Taiga, Suzaku and the others, forcefully pushing them back towards the back door. "STEP BACK," he barked as an Old Guard soldier stepped forwards tentatively.

"Milady, take these children and go. GET BACK!"

Taiga sounded afraid as she stepped back. "But—"

"I can't hold them here! YOU, DON'T MOVE!" Sasaki gritted his teeth. He was armed with a handgun against a group of soldiers with automatic weapons. Any calm individual would know that he had no chance. His shouting was so far scaring the soldiers into thinking he was a threat—but any minute, they would call his bluff.

"Go," he murmured as quickly as he could, "there are JSDF troops at the convoy. Either get to them or just get out of here."

"Sasaki—"

"GO, GODAMMIT!"

As Taiga turned around and ran, Kikuchi extended a hand.

"Wait—"

It happened in an instant. Sasaki raised his handgun with a shout. Shocked, one of the soldiers pulled the trigger by accident, discharging his rifle with a roar. The bullet, shot by accident, buried itself into the wall harmlessly. However, reacting to what sounded like hostile gunfire, someone else pulled a trigger—and then another, and another, and then yet another.

When the last of the rifles fell silent, most of the soldiers had already shot their full clip.

Sasaki Takasu stumbled against the wall, sliding slowly down, his handgun still tightly clamped in his hand.

It had not even been a fight.

For a moment, the soldiers could only stare. For most of them, this was the first time they had opened fire against a human being—and the first time they had seen a dying human up close. They could only stare silently at the man who lay writhing in front of their eyes.

"…Takasu shot first," Sergeant Kikuchi finally managed.

Of course, most of the assembled soldiers knew somewhere that it was probably not true.

An examination of the handgun clasped in the corpse's hand would probably show not a shot fired.

Yet they ignored it. Reloading their rifles, they nodded in silent agreement.

After all, this man was an assistant to Fujimura Raiga, a man most people knew to be the head of a Yakuza.

Would it not be easy to construe it as an attempt to gain power by holding Ms. Fujimura or young master Kururugi Hostage, filed by the valiant actions of the old guard?

They repeated the "facts" to each other and decided that their combined testimony was correct.

Even the man who had first pulled the trigger almost believed it.

United by the common bond of conspiracy, the soldiers agreed that what was important was to complete their mission and kill the Britannian children. That it killed those who might suspect the truth was only an added bonus.

Spreading out into groups of three, they fanned out as they notified their compatriots at the clan compound.

* * *

><p><em>Ring ring…<em>

The sound seemed so far away to Takasu Sasaki as he lay against the wall.

His own breath sounded far away, a ragged call in the distance.

Yet, dutifully, Sasaki reached into his pocket to remove his miraculously-untouched phone.

With weakening hands, he put the phone to his ear.

"Sasaki!"

"…Mr. Fujimura."

"Sasaki! Are you alright? What Happened?"

"…Sorry…I couldn't take them all the way."

"Where are they?"

"…Running."

"Where?! Sasaki, are you alright?!"

"Yeah…just feeling a little under the weather…"

Takasu Sasaki barely noticed that the phone had already fallen from his limp hand.

"Sasaki? Where are you?"

The distant murmurs of the phone irritated Sasaki. Did they have to be so loud when he was so tired?

Now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen his son and wife for a while.

With all the war business he had been dealing with, he had not been back to visit Yasuko and Ryuji for a while.

Just like his own father had not been back often for him.

It was decided then. He would return home and have dinner with his wife and child.

As soon as he woke up from this nap. Just a short res—

* * *

><p>"Sasaki!"<p>

Fujimura Raiga stared at his phone.

"Sir?"

Raiga turned to regard Yohane, who bowed respectfully. "Your car to the air force base is ready."

"Alright. Have you contacted my men?"

"Yes, they are setting off from Fuyuki, Nagoya and Narita towards the compound."

"Tell them to hurry up," Raiga snapped.

Sasaki had been the last person he could rely on at the Kururugi compound—the rest of them were Kururugi's men.

There would be nobody to protect those children—or his daughter.

Unless…

It wasn't a good idea to involve outsiders in this—but at the moment he had no choice.

Disconnecting the call, Raiga dialed a new set of numbers.

"Kiritsugu?"

* * *

><p>"Young master! Where are you going?!"<p>

"Crap," Fujimura Taiga muttered as, shouldering Nunnally, she ran past the surprised servant.

"Taiga, where are we going?!" Suzaku Kururugi took a fervent glance around the corner—and then ducked it back. "No good, soldiers."

Taiga couldn't answer, because she didn't know. Even if she escaped to the convoy, there was no guarantee that the old guard soldiers would not be able to pull anything.

Everyone in the compound seemed to be looking for them—and, without Sasaki, they had no means to defend themselves were they to be found. Even worse…

Suzaku turned to Lelouch with disbelief. "How are you out of breath already?!"

"Physical…endeavors…are not my thing."

"I TOLD you I could have trained you," Taiga said regretfully. With Nunnally blind and immobile and Lelouch physically inept—it would be impossible for them to reach the convoy downstairs in one run, a difficult feat even for just Taiga and Suzaku.

"Let's try to get to the edge of the compound," Taiga whispered as she pointed at a nearby shed. "If we go down the woods, we might reach the convoy."

"…And then what?"

"…I don't know." Taiga glanced around the corner. There didn't seem to be anyone around. "But it's all we can do, right?"

Suzaku nodded. "Yeah, let's do it."

"I'll go first." Looking around the corner, Taiga sprinted faster than she ever thought possible. Looking back, she nodded to Suzaku. Without getting ready, Suzaku broke into a dead spring, crossing safely. Lastly, Taiga nodded to Lelouch.

"Come on. It's just you now."

"…alright." Lelouch took a deep breath as he assumed what he probably thought was a sprinter's pose.

Suzaku put his face in his hands. "He doesn't realize how stupid he looks, right?"

And then, huffing and puffing, Lelouch ran faster than he ever had in his life.

Which wasn't saying much.

"Too slow," Suzaku muttered as the dark-haired britannian sputtered across the dirt—and then tripped. For a moment, he looked precariously balanced between a full frontal dive and a sprint—and then he began to fall.

"Shit!" Reaching out, Suzaku quickly grabbed Lelouch's outstretched hand and dragged him across—

"Who's there?!"

Taiga felt her heart stop.

"…You see something, Mikado?"

_Say it was your imagination say it was your imagination say it was—_

"Yeah…let's go."

_Goddamit._

Taiga looked around. If they made a run on the other side—

"Go around both sides. I'll cover you."

Mentally, Taiga cursed military efficiency.

"What are we going to do?" Suzaku looked up at Taiga, his face now clouded with fear.

The sound of footsteps was closing in.

Taiga gritted her teeth as she lowered Nunnally into Suzaku's hands.

"Suzaku, Lelouch, when I say go, I'm going to run at the guy on the right side. We're not the ones they want anyway. As soon as I do, run, alright?"

"But Tiger…"

Taiga grinned reassuringly. "They don't want to kill us anyway, right?"

"Yeah, thanks," Lelouch muttered quietly.

Taking a deep breath, Taiga prepared to run as she raised three fingers.

"3..."

"2…"

And then one of the soldier spoke, his voice alert. "—who's there?! Co—"

A sound that resembled polite cough was followed shortly by the sound of a body falling to the ground.

"Mikado, who—augh—" And then one of the soldier collapsed to the ground, a noticeable, slightly bloody hole in the side of his head.

—Taiga smothered a gasp—

"Hostiles in the compound! Hostiles in the compound! Weapons Free!"

And suddenly the Kururugi Family Compound was a battleground.

* * *

><p>"We've been compromised. Silencers off, weapons Free!"<p>

"Go, go, go!"

"You heard him men, let's get in there," Captain Mantarankis' voice said from the headset.

Rising up from the bushes, Private Paul Jackson of the Queen's Rangers squeezed off a burst of his rifle as the Rangers leapt out of their hiding places.

_Dammit…we were so close._

The convoy at the base of the complex had been neutralized without a hitch, but it seemed like somebody had screwed up.

"Get down!"

Instinctively, Jackson ducked—just as a burst from Corporal Kusui brought down the soldier who had rushed at him out of nowhere with what looked like an actual katana.

"_These are paramilitary guys,_" the briefing had said. "_They're what's left of the army we fought in '41._" They looked the part too—unlike the JSDF, who wore the dark green of the Britannian military, these soldiers wore a khaki green that looked several decades obsolete.

Unlike the JSDF who had been guarding the convoy and Tokyo Tower, these soldiers seemed relatively lightly armed and armored.

However, they fought with a ferocity that took the Rangers aback.

"These guys are goddamn animals," Jackson muttered.

"There's a Chinese proverb that 'you can't get the tiger cubs without going into the tiger's den,'" Kusui replied.

"What the hell are you planning on doing with a tiger cub?"

"Ask the chinese," Kusui replied with a shrug Jackson could almost hear.

"I hope our tiger cub is worth it."

It was a reasonably ambitious plan. Attack Japanese Prime Minister Kururugi's family compound and capture his family. It wasn't technically very Geneva Convention-y, but it would serve to protect the lives of the Britannian Prince and Princess held hostage in Japan—if they weren't dead already.

"This isn't the most solid plan I've heard of," Jackson remarked. "If Prime Minister Kururugi's son isn't here—or if we accidentally shoot them, we've pretty much screwed over the hostages."

"If they're not dead already," Kusui muttered.

Captain Mantarankis ducked behind a building as he reloaded. "I heard House Ashford put a lot of pressure on the military to do this."

"…I guess they're just trying to hold onto what power they have left," Kusui suggested. House Ashford—the former minor noble house that had been the backer to Empress (and former Knight of Two) Marianne vi Britannia. With her assassination, house Ashford had lost a large amount of influence, and the exile of Marianne's two children to Japan had put an end to house Ashford's political power. If the prince and princess died in Japan, House Ashford would lose all chance of regaining its former power.

Kusui spat. "So this is a political battle?"

"Welcome to Britannia," Mantarakis replied. "Now heads up. We're moving in."

"Roger, covering you."

* * *

><p>Suzaku Kururugi ran through the battle as if in a daze.<p>

With a gurgle, an Old Guard soldier who had always guarded the complex entrance fell to the ground, scrabbling at the throat that no longer functioned.

In a blast of torn paper, wood and debris, a grenade explosion tore a hole in the wall of the complex, catching one of the masked Britannian soldiers in its wake.

Under sustained fire, the decorative rock in the garden Suzaku had always practiced in crumbled as wounded Japanese Soldier huddled, holding his head in his hands.

Several servants ran through the debris, one of them tripping as, shot in the knee, she fell to the ground.

This was the home in which Suzaku had lived in all his life.

He could barely understand what was happening—his father's men were trying to kill Lelouch and Nunnally, while the Britannians were trying to kill them.

Suddenly, the world went white, and Suzaku was blasted off his feet.

When he opened his eyes, he was on his side.

He felt something grabbing his hand, pulling insistently in the ringing silence.

_Lelouch?_

The dark-haired Britannian was, indeed, trying to lift him up, yelling something that Suzaku couldn't hear over the ringing.

Somewhere, he felt like laughing. Lelouch could barely do a push-up—there was no way he would be able to lift Suzaku.

And then somebody lifted him up, and the ringing faded.

Fujimura Taiga patted his head as she stare at him with concern. "You alright?!"

"Yeah," Suzaku managed unsteadily as he scrambled to his feet.

"Let's go! We have to get to the Safehouse!"

_Back to the safehouse again?_

It did make sense. A safehouse was meant for a situation like this.

Picking himself up, Suzaku ran as men bled and died all around them.

As he ran past the veranda, Suzaku blinked with surprise as he recognized Sergeant Kikuchi, huddling behind a stone lamp.

For a moment, the two looked into each other's eyes as Kikuchi's eyes lit up with recognition.

In those eyes, Suzaku could not see excitement—or bravery, or anything he imagine'd he'd feel. All he saw were fear; a fear so strong that it could compel a man to kill another.

Recognizing Suzaku, Kikuchi stood up, reaching out and beckoning with his hand—and then he fell, his mouth half open in an expression of shock as a bullet struck him in the side of the head.

For less than a second, Suzaku saw shock, dismay, fear in Kikuchi's eyes, before they faded away.

Suzaku Kururugi kept running as the body fell to the floor.

_Is this war_?

When he was younger, he had always pretend to be a Japanese soldier, fighting valiantly against a more advanced and numerous enemy on the islands of Japan, or a Samurai defending the honor of his house.

To him, War had always been out there—in the field, in islands far away, elsewhere.

But now war was in his own backyard.

And suddenly, Suzaku was not sure who or what he wanted to be.

* * *

><p>"YeAAAAAaAAHHH—"<p>

With a blood-curling shout, the Japanese soldier charged forwards, swinging his empty rifle like a bludgeon.

Ducking under the blow, Private Jackson grabbed the muzzle of his rifle and thrust upwards with his rifle, striking the soldier in the chin. As the soldier reeled, Jackson swung his rifle around and squeezed a shot into the soldier's chest. The man convulsed for a moment before laying still.

"These guys are maniacs," Corporal Kusui exclaimed with a gasp.

In terms of pure tactics, these soldiers were not stunningly good—screaming was a tactic whose psychological value had long since been outweighed in most cases by the tactical disadvantages it conferred. However, in house-to-house, close-range fighting, these irregulars were fearsome opponents, readily switching to their antiquated swords at close range. It wasn't generally successful, but Jackson already had way too many close misses.

Something caught the corner of his eye.

"Isn't that—"

There were evidently many civilians in the facility—but he had yet to see any children.

"Captain, isn't that—"

Captain Mantarankis paused in between bursts. "I'm busy, Private, what is it?"

"I think I just saw a group of children run into that building!"

"Good man! Kusui and Welch are a bit busy here! Take Carson and Gendry and check on them! Make sure not to harm them!"

"Of course," Paul replied as he checked the ammunition on his rifle. "Let's go!"

* * *

><p>Countless fingers of light reached through the holes in the paper screens into the main building, illuminating the dancing clouds of dust motes.<p>

A thick layer of dust obscured the interior, as if the building had been abandoned for years.

In the main hall, a soldier was slumped against a pillar, his eyes glassy as his hands cradled the gray-and-red matter that was slowly leaking out of his stomach.

"Sorry," Taiga muttered as she reached down and grabbed the katana that lay near the soldier had evidently attempted to use. Judging by the lack of blood and the state of the soldier, it had been unsuccessful.

Even through the torn or pockmarked paper screens, the sound of gunfire seemed a little duller. The power had long since been gone, and so many of the rooms lurked in half-darkness as, shouldering Nunnally, Taiga half-ran through the murky, unfriendly hallways that, only a few hours ago, had been home.

Turning a corner with Suzaku and Lelouch tightly in tow, Taiga stopped short.

"What—"

It was a scene that could only be described as a massacre. The closed safe-room door was pockmarked, as if somebody had attempted to attack it. Though damaged, the outer passkey system blinked red, meaning the door was locked.

And, scattered around it, were the motionless bodies of several servants and soldiers, their expressions of terror frozen on their faces.

Lelouch bit his lower lip grimly. "Suzaku, you didn't close the safe house earlier, did you?"

"No, I wanted to get rid of the Natto smell."

Taiga nodded slowly. "…Then who closed it?"

Lelouch's eyes narrows as he looked at the bodies—and the broken Katana that lay near one of the soldier's bodies.

"These soldiers were trying to get into the safe room. Somebody must have locked themselves in."

Suzaku stared.

"How—"

Taiga turned. "What is it?"

"Only Father and I know the passkey to the safe-room. How are they planning on getting out with the passkey?"

Lelouch laughed darkly. "…They weren't thinking about that when they went in, did they?"

Stepping around the dead bodies, Suzaku walked over to the intercom. Somehow, despite the bullet holes, the console seemed largely unharmed.

"Is anyone inside?"

A scratchy voice responded, one that Suzaku recognized as that of a servant. "…Is that you, Young master?"

"Yes," Suzaku responded. "Are you guys alright?"

"Yes, young master. The safe house camera is broken. Are the Britannians gone?"

"No, that's why we want to get in," Suzaku responded as he reached out to type in the passcode—and stopped. The key console, unlike the intercom, was destroyed, a smoking mess of burnt plastic and wires. "Guys, I'm going to tell you the passcode to open the door, can you open it and let us in?"

The short moment of silence seemed all the more longer as the sounds of battle roared around them . Finally, the intercom crackled again.

"Yes, Young Master. Please give us the code."

Taking a deep breath, Suzaku closed his eyes as he began to recite a seemingly random set of numbers. "3296234334807."

"…Please leave, young master."

Suzaku blinked. "…what?"

"Please leave, young master. We are full, and we cannot take any others."

Lelouch tried the intercom. "Surely you have space for a young girl and three children?"

"…perhaps we do," the voice on the intercom replied, "but the outside camera is destroyed, and we cannot see outside the safe. There may be a group of Britannian soldiers waiting outside waiting to come in and kill us all."

"It's only us," Suzaku replied angrily.

"…Please leave, young master."

"You selfish bastards, you just wanted the code so you could escape when you wanted, didn't you?!" Taiga roared as she held down the intercom.

"…milady, we will not open the door. Please find your own place to hide."

"…I can't believe it," Suzaku muttered to himself. Watching nearby, Lelouch could sympathize. _To be locked out of your own shelter by your own servants…_it was most certainly a betrayal few would expect. Those inside had been far too afraid to open the blast door and let in the soldiers and servants that now lay sprawled across the floor, and it seemed they had no plans to let in even the boy whose father they served.

Out of nowhere, Taiga raised the Katana she had taken of the fallen Japanese soldier. With a shout of anger, she slashed down at the safe room door. There was a loud clang, but the door held firm. Raising the sword above her again with her trained stance, Taiga charged forwards once more, swinging down the blade. Once more, the door resounded with a clang.

And then, on the third time, the katana snapped, its blade cracking off and falling to the ground.

"It's useless," Lelouch advised. For a door meant to defend against a hand grenade, a light bladed weapon like a Katana would be beyond useless.

There had to be another way to get into the safehouse—

"Freeze!"

And then Lelouch froze as he heard the cry in English—the language he had simultaneously hoped to hear and yet hoped to never hear again.

Slowly, Lelouch turned—to face the three uniformed, masked men who stood in the hallway, their rifles at their ready.

Suzaku and Taiga spun around, Taiga holding the fragment of the katana blade in front of her.

"It's alright," a soldier on the side said in a reassuring tone as he stepped forwards, "we don't want to hurt you."

The tone apparently had not gotten through to Taiga, as she let down Nunnally with a shrug and stepped in front of them.

"No," she said loudly in English.

For a moment, the officer seemed a little dumbfounded.

"Look, there's no chance you can win here, and we don't want to harm you—"

"No," Taiga responded, even louder. Leaning over to Lelouch, she muttered, "How do you say 'what do you want?'"

"Did you not learn English in high school?"

"I'm not very good at it, goddamit."

"Goddamn Jackson, they don't even know what I'm saying anyway," the officer at the front said to the sodleir as he scratched his head and reached behind him—

"Alright alright, we understand you," Lelouch responded in English as he quickly stepped around Taiga. "I'll tell her to put down her weapons."

Slowly, with a tone of wonder, Jackson pulled off his mask and raised his goggles, revealing a scruffy-looking face. "…Hey…you're Britannian aren't you?"

"Yeah," Lelouch replied.

The officer blinked. "Pretty high-class judging by the accent too. Don't tell me you're—"

And then a gunshot.

Jackson and the other soldier turned around as the officer fell facefirst into the ground, a bullet hole in the back of his head.

Gasping, Taiga moved to cover Nunnally's eyes, perhaps forgetting she couldn't see anyway—

Jackson and the other Britannian soldier turned around—a millisecond too late. The other Britannian soldier's fell to the ground, clutching at his chest, brought down by another burst of gunfire.

Private Paul Jackson spun around.

_How had he gotten past the guys watching the entrance?!_

In front of him, he could see a man in what looked like a dark trench coat, cradling what looked like an Austrian Steyr AUG in its long-barreled configuration—strange, considering the range[5].

Jackson moved to raise his AR—but, after years of fighting, he already knew he would not raise his rifle fast enough.

_Please let it be fast enough…_

With all his strength, he raised the rifle, feeling the butt slam against his shoulder—and then he felt a dull impact in his chest.

_Damn…it…_

His mouth opened involuntarily in a gasp as he felt a white needle in his chest.

And then he remembered.

In the chaos of preparation, he had forgotten to send the picture he had taken of Tokyo Tower to his children back at home.

They would surely be disappointed, wouldn't they?

Emiya Kiritsugu calmly reloaded his AUG as he stepped over the bodies of the Queen's Rangers as he drily regarded the ragtag group of children.

"Fujimura Taiga?"

Taiga nodded silently as she raised her broken sword.

"Your father sent me to get you."

* * *

><p>"Maiya, I've retrieved the targets," Kiritsugu said into his headset as he walked through the complex with quick strides. The bodies of two Rangers lay on the floor where they had attempted to stop Kiritsugu.<p>

"Alright, on my way," Maiya's voice replied.

The volume of gunfire had definitely decreased. That would make things difficult.

With Raiga's blueprints and the Japanese paramilitary and the Britannian Rangers fighting throughout the complex, it hadn't been very difficult for Kiritsugu to sneak through.

Now that the fighting was dying down, it would be more difficult to escape without being discovered.

Maiya would be arriving soon with her commandeered escape ride, but until then…

With a rather unnecessary kick, three rangers charged in over the paper screen door they had just knocked down.

"Carson! Jackso—"

Without hesitation, Kiritsugu raised his AUG and fired two quick bursts. Two rangers fell, one with a pained groan—but a second, reacting quickly, ducked back firing as he yelled into his headset.

"Hostiles! Hostiles in the main building—" Gritting his teeth, Kiritsugu cut down the soldier with a second burst.

Of course, he knew it was too late.

The Queen's Rangers were not your average infantry—they were not the most elite of the Britannian special forces, but they were pretty high up there.

There was no doubt they would be assaulting the building soon.

Turning, he looked over his new charges, most of which regarded him with obvious suspicion.

A teenage girl and three children, one of which was also blind and crippled.

A ragtag band of child soldiers that even the most desperate of African rebel leaders wouldn't resort to using.

In the past, he had worked with child soldiers—despite the high attrition rate among child soldiers, the survivors were vicious fighters, skilled in subterfuge and easily-trained.

It wasn't really that he had stopped working with child soldiers—in the underworld, you dealt with many unsavory characters. Maiya had simply grown too old to be considered a child soldier.

Kiritsugu looked at the young girl on Fujimura Taiga's back. Somehow, though they looked nothing alike, Kiritsugu could almost see Ilya's face.

He wasn't sure he would be able to do it again.

_Not like I can do it right now anyway._

These four, after all, were the very reason he was here.

"Go back into the building," Kiritsugu said quietly. "Maiya will come and pick you up soon."

The Britannian boy glared, slightly petulantly. "How do we know who she is? What if she doesn't? What if the soldiers get here first?"

Kiritsugu hid his annoyance. This kind of child was annoying to deal with.

"If the soldiers get there first, hide."

Taiga's eyes narrowed. "And what if they find us?"

"Then run."

"And what if we can no longer run?"

Reaching into his coat, he withdrew a small handgun—a small holdout pistol, a small weapon for emergencies. With a short flick, he tossed the gun towards Taiga, whose expression of horror was evident.

Walking over to the Taiga, Kiritsugu moved her hand to the safety.

"Safety's here. Flip off, point and shoot. Can you do that?"

Taiga nodded mutely.

"Good."

Raising his rifle in front of him, Kiritsugu walked towards the entrance.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Suzaku shouted.

"Buying some time."

* * *

><p>"Move, move, move! Switch to Thermal, I'll cover you!"<p>

Taking a quick glance out the damaged window frame, Emiya Kiritsugu felt a grudging approval.

The Queen's Rangers were, after all, elites. They moved in small leap-frogging squads, methodically moving up to secure land. It was hardly surprising that even the relatively well-trained Old Guard paramilitary had been defeated.

In a straight gun-fight, even with much better odds, Kiritsugu would probably lose.

He was an assassin, not a soldier.

However, he was also a magus.

Pulling open a bullet-marked screen door, Kiritsugu stepped in and closed the screen behind him. Reaching out a gloved finger, he poked a hole in the paper screen door for convenient viewing.

The sound of muffled footsteps grew closer on the wooden floor.

Closing his eyes, he muttered, "_Time alter—double stagnate_."

Almost immediately, the heat drained away from his body as the world suddenly brightened.

The Emiya family had boasted four generations of magus before Emiya Kiritsugu.

Like all magus, the Emiya had aspired to reaching Akasha—and the way they sought to reach their answer was through the manipulation of time. Of course, it does not imply time modification such as the ability to go back in time or reverse the effects of causality. The magecraft of the Emiya clan deals with the stagnation and acceleration of time—the acceleration of the passing of time, already theoretically possible through science, and the stagnation of the passing of time.

As Akasha dictated both the beginning and the end of the universe, it theoretically would be possible to reach Akasha by infinitely accelerating time in a certain area past the end of the universe into Akasha.

Of course, Emiya Kiritsugu aspired to nothing as ambitious as Akasha. The magecraft of the Emiya had no appeal to Kiritsugu unless they could be used on the battlefield.

Normally, the magecraft of the Emiya required large-scale preparations in a given area that would not be practical in a combat situation.

However, Kiritsugu had designed a modification of the bounded field that could be limited to his own body, thus lowering both the prana requirement and preparation time.

This was one of its results.

By stagnating time within his own body, Kiritsugu could lower the rate of the individual functions and chemical reactions within the body—the beating of the heart, the movement of the muscles, the circulation of blood, the release of body heat.

Rather hurriedly, the three shapes rapidly walked past Kiritsugu.

The darkness was far brighter for Kiritsugu—with twice the normal of light reaching Kiritsugu's retinas, he received the added benefit of night vision, even in the dark Kururugi compound.

As soon as the three shapes walked past, Kiritsugu closed his eyes once more.

"…_Release alter_."

The return hit Kiritsugu in a blast of pain. Kiritsugu had slowed down time in a bounded field limited to his body. Once the field had dissipated, the time within his body would attempt to resynchronize.

The heart instantly beat at double the time, forcing the blood that had slowly stopped moving back into action, putting stress on blood vessels unused to the pressure.

To Kiritsugu it was like somebody had slammed his whole body with a sledgehammer.

Ignoring the pain, though, his hands tightened on his AUG as he took a deep breath—and then, crashing out from the screen door, he faced the shocked rangers. With a roar, the AUG struggled against his shoulder as he brought down the three rangers.

As the last ranger fell, he straightened up.

The Rangers could have done little to prevent it. Magecraft aside, the Rangers were not familiar with Japanese Architecture.

Japanese society has been traditionally shaped by countless natural disasters from earthquakes to tsunamis to typhoons. As such, Japanese architecture is built around practicality. Screens and walls are built of accessible, cheap materials such as wood and paper; aesthetics are tailored to a similarity to the surroundings, unlike the stone houses of Europe or the great pillars of China.

What the Queen's Rangers probably did not realize was that walls in Japanese architecture are not as immobile as those of Britannian homes. Japanese walls bear almost no weight, and serve as little more than moveable partitions; to an unpracticed eye, screen doors often looked nearly indistinguishable from the walls. Without a response from their thermal sights, the rangers had no way to know that Kiritsugu had been hiding behind one of the walls.

"What was that?!"

"Wilkins, Vance and Tayshawn are down!"

"Hostile across the room!"

Kiritsugu cursed. Another problem with Japanese walls was that they weren't good at insulating or dissipating heat inside the building. Having disengaged accel, his heat signature was now visible to the rangers.

Muzzle Flashlights shone against the hallway as Kiritsugu crouched—

The three rangers turned the corner, rifles up.

The target was almost ten meters away, with his weapon lowered—hardly an issue.

"Weapons Free!"

The lead ranger raised his rifle as, throwing aside his rifle, the man reached into his coat and began to run—

"_Time Alter -_ _Double Accel._"

And then the man was right in front of them.

"What—"

The dark corridor was lit up with the flash of gunfire as the Rangers crumpled soundlessly.

Kiritsugu walked among the bodies, prodding them with his Calico M950 submachine gun as he winced.

Time Alter didn't simply apply to the stagnation of time—it applied to the acceleration of it. By increasing the speed by which Kiritsugu's body systems worked, his reflexes and movement could be boosted, at least temporarily, to inhuman speed—enough to cross ten meters in the fraction of a second.

Kiritsugu took the silence to push a few bullets into the M950's magazine.

Mounted with a helical magazine unique to the calico series, the Calico M950 almost looked like a children's water gun with its top-mounted barrel magazine, an additional weight that merited a foregrip.

On the other hand, the M950 also conferred a rather large clip size of fifty bullets and compactness, both important values in Kiritsugu's value of work. Still in long-range configuration, the AUG wouldn't have been very useful at that range.

"Maiya, where are you?"

"On my way. There were Rangers at the APCs."

Kiritsugu winced as he began to run. The strain applied by Time acceleration was, if anything, even worse than that of time stagnation. He wouldn't be able to do this much longer. He would need to fight more conservatively from here out.

"Hurry it up. Pick up the targets first."

"Roger."

* * *

><p>Fujimura Taiga looked down at the handgun in her shaking hands.<p>

Somehow, she had felt fine holding the sword—but a gun was another thing.

The parry and dodge were as integral a part to Kendo as the strike. A sword could be used to defense. It can be used to parry the blows sent towards you or those you wished to defend.

A gun, though…

A gun was a weapon that could only be used to kill. You could not block or protect yourself from anyone who sought to harm you—you could only kill the person who wished you harm.

In a way, Taiga realized this was just her fear of responsibility—even if you hurt someone protecting yourself, you could rationalize it as an accidental act of self-defense.

When you pulled a trigger, you could only shoot to hurt—there would be no "unintentional" injury, even if it were justified under the law.

"Green, get back!"

"Hosti—eugh—"

The sounds of gunfire were drawing closer, along with shouts in Britannian.

"…We can't just stay here," Lelouch Lamperouge yelped in a voice that he felt sounded unnecessarily loud.

Suzaku, having picked up the broken sword Taiga had discarded, looked around nervously. "But that man told us…"

Lelouch tried not to lose his temper at Suzaku. In a calmer environment, he might have pointed out how silly that had sounded.

"That man. We don't even know his name or what his plans are. For all we know he might be waiting to kill all of us once he gets rid of the evidence."

Suzaku looked around the emptied hall nervously. "Where do we go then?"

Lelouch had no answer. Outside the complex, Japan was not the most Britannian-friendly place in the current climate, so that was most certainly a no-go for him and Nunnally—and despite his faith in Taiga and Suzaku's willingness to defend him, in reality neither of them realistically had the power to protect him or Nunnally from the Prime Minister.

Realistically, his best odds were with the Rangers—but given the state of his last interaction with his father…

Lelouch gritted his teeth. The Emperor had invaded Japan with full knowledge that he was going to kill Lelouch and Nunnally. Britannia under Charles never negotiated. And how could Lelouch expect a man who would send his son and daughter to their deaths to protect the lives of two Britannian children?

It seemed like that man, at the very least, was not allied with Britannia. Given he had not yet shot Lelouch and Nunnally, he wasn't any worse than anyone else in this battlefield.

If anything, he and Nunnally would slip away in the confusion—

"NO—"

And then, a sharp, low, rumbling boom.

With the crack of splintering wood and paper and a sharp scream from Taiga (and, a moment later, from Nunnally), a smoking figure smashed through the screen door, rolling across the ground as shards of wood and burning paper scattered through the air.

For a moment, it looked as if the Queen's Ranger had been killed by the Grenade blast. Half a second later, though, he rolled around as he turned to face the people in the room.

Lelouch could see one of the man's eyes widening (the other seemed to be bloodied by a large gash) as he moved one hand towards his headset and the other towards the handgun at his belt. Judging by the way his leg jittered, it seemed as if he had trouble standing up.

With shaking hands, Taiga raised her handgun—

Tightening his grip on his sidearm, the Ranger pulled out his handgun—and then dropped it with a cry of pain as he stared at the growing patch of red on his arm. Like a mad animal, his hands scrabbled along the bloodied tatami for his handgun as he spoke into his headset.

"Overlord, targets spotted, targets spotted—"

Lelouch's own eyes widened in horror. "He's telling them our position! Stop him!"

Almost in slow motion, Taiga raised the handgun with shaking hands as she pointed at the soldier.

_Lelouch is right. That soldier is going to give away our position._

She had shoot the man and prevent him from making things worse.

After all, he was about to raise his own gun.

The courts would agree with her.

It was, after all, self-defense.

Looking down the shaking sights, she could see the man's hand tighten on his handgun.

_I have a duty to protect these children._

And she had to do whatever it took.

Ignored the scream she didn't recognize as her own, Fujimura Taiga closed her eyes as her fingers tightened on the trigger—

It was as if somebody had struck her hand. The handgun in her hand was wrenched away with inhuman force, and Taiga squeezed her eyes shut.

She was too slow.

The Britannian had managed to draw his weapon.

It was over.

She closed her eyes, awaiting the inevitable gunshot that would finish her—that never came.

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

The Black-coated man's gun was still smoking as he kicked the body of the Queen's Ranger to the side.

His voice bore no emotion.

"Did you shoot?"

"I'm sorry…"

Yet when he turned around, his face bore something that resembled joy.

And then he smiled.

It wasn't a sadistic smile, or a mirthful smile, or a prideful one—it was a sad smile, a smile of relief.

A joy that seemed to belong to a much younger man.

"I'm glad."

He walked over, hand out—just as, with an inhuman roar, the opposite wall also burst open as blinding, white light flooded into the room. A huge shadow eclipsed the sunlight—

"Just in time," the man muttered. The smile had vanished as if it had never happened as he walked over to the shape—a shape Taiga recognized as one of the JSDF APCs that had been at the bottom of the hill. As her vision adjusted, the trail of shattered trees delineated exactly how the APC had gotten up there.

The man turned around as the back hatch of the APC opened.

"Get in, get in!"

Waving to Taiga and the others, the man fired from around the corner of the APC for a moment as he helped Lelouch and Suzaku on, extending an arm as Taiga passed Nunnally. Having deposited the frail Britannian girl into Suzaku's arms, he turned around once more, reaching out an arm for Taiga, an arm she immediately grasped as the APC began to move. With a forceful yank, the man pulled Taiga on board the APC as the ramp closed behind her.

"Get us out of here," the man yelled.

"Affirmative," a female voice replied from the driver's seat.

With a sigh, the man collapsed onto the seat next to Taiga, his face drawn with exhaustion as he closed his eyes.

"Thank you…sir," Taiga said timidly.

"Just doing my job," the man replied, without a hint of flattery to suggest it was anything but the truth.

"Sir…what's your name?"

The man turned and regarded Taiga.

"Emiya. Emiya Kiritsugu."

* * *

><p>"Any news on Kiritsugu?"<p>

"None yet," Yohane Kotetsu yelled over the sound of helicopter blades as he helped Fujimura Raiga down from the helicopter. For a man of his age, the _Oyabun_ displayed a manic agility that Yohane hadn't seen for years.

"Keep me posted!"

"Yes, sir!"

Yohane stood up and assumed his place behind Raiga as he straightened up and brushing dust off his immaculate coat—and was nearly deafened as a wave of roars smashed into him like a tidal wave.

Only years of composure prevented his jaws from dropping as he looked up—at the crowd that seemed to have awaited Raiga.

And it was quite the crowd. There were men in suits; men in hakama; men in T-shirts; men in nothing but tattoos; even a few women. Some of them waved handguns, a few assault rifles—others wooden swords, real swords, shotguns.

This was the force that had been the force behind the Fujimura Raiga's dominance of the shipping industry. This was the force that had, in several months, defeated the various mafias, Yakuza and chinese triads that had controlled much of Japanese shipping.

This was the Fujimura Group, the largest of the Yakuza of Japan.

Fujimura Raiga tapped his staff lightly against the ground. It was a sound that could have easily been missed by the crowd—but its effect was instant.

In the silence that immediately ensued, Fujimura Raiga spoke, his slightly demonic-looking eyes fixated on a member of the audience.

"Miyazaki, how is the business?"

Nodding to the member's tinny response, Raiga turned to another man.

"Hakurei, still watching the shrine?"

"Is your daughter's Japanese lessons going well, Kim?"

"Bezdickova, still here I see. Your wife got off your back?"

Looking around the crowd, Raiga smiled a cracked smile.

"My sons, my daughters, my adopted family…my bonds to you run thicker than blood. For years, I have relied on you, worked with you, been helped by you. The Fujimura group could not have become what it was without each and every one of you. I have relied on you men time and time again with little reward."

The crowd's cheers were instantly silenced as Raiga continued.

"But it seems I must rely on you men once more. My granddaughter, it seems, is in danger. I understand this is not the best time. You have family and friends you wish to protect and accompany in these times of trouble."

And then even Yohane could not resist staring as, with one smooth moment, got onto his knees and bowed, a bow that audibly connected his head with the floor.

"But, once more, men, I ask you for your aid. That you accompany me to save this granddaughter of mine. I will not grudge you if you leave now. You, too have family, who are worth far more to you than my daughter. I ask that those who refuse leave now, and leave without fear of retribution."

For a moment, the field was silent—and Yohane smiled as Fujimura Raiga slowly raised his head.

Not a single person had moved.

Slowly, a smile once more inched across Raiga's crooked face. "It seems like you are all idiots," he shouted. "But idiots I can trust."

With alarming swiftness, he stood up as he looked around the airfield.

"Now, my true family—let's go rescue this ungrateful granddaughter of mine!"

At 50 years of age, Yohane had always kept his body in good shape. His eyes were still 20/20, his sense of taste as good as ever.

But the roar that swept over the airfield at that moment convinced him that he would never hear again.

* * *

><p>Voices. Voices everywhere.<p>

Whispering. Speaking. Shouting.

It made some sense. After all, the dead far outnumbered the living.

"Jackson!"

It wouldn't be a surprise that the afterlife be some inner city urban sprawl.

Then again, was he in heaven or hell? It sure was loud.

"Jackson!"

Water. Wet.

Was this the styx?

Did somebody forget to pay the boatman for me?

I'm not very good at swimming—

"Private Jackson!"

Paul Jackson snapped awake.

"Private Paul Jackson, Queen's Rangers, Pay Number E3425049—"

"Welcome back," the face of Suming Kusui was twisted into a grin as he gazed down at Jackson.

Jackson frowned. "You're not an angel," he said in an accusatory tone.

"I'm sorry," Kusui sighed with obvious relief.

Jackson prepared to prop himself up—and then felt a burst of pain as he craned his head up.

He was strapped to a gurney. Rangers seemed to be walking here and there, and a helicopter seemed to be lifting other gurneys.

"Where—"

"You know that picture you took for your daughter?"

"Yeah?"

"I think you're going to have to settle for a postcard," Kusui grinned as he lifted a twisted piece of plastic and metal. It looked almost like Jackson's nokia—except completely bent.

In fact, it was his nokia.

"They do say these things are bricks," Kusui remarked. "Took the bullet meant for your chest. It wasn't enough to stop the bullet, but it was enough to stop it from going through your vitals."

The aboriginal Taiwanese-Britannian happily patted Jackson's arm, an action that elicited a sharp stab of pain.

"Of course, you got shot in the arm, leg and shoulder, but you're going to live." Kusui looked around darkly. "You were lucky. Carson and Gendry didn't make it. Mantrankis might make it if he's lucky."

The ranger spat bitterly.

"And all for nothing. We didn't find shit. Just a bunch of servants. Piece of bullshit intel that was…" Kusui's complaint trailed off as he turned around.

"Well, it seems like the guy who gave us the shitty intel is here in person."

* * *

><p>Reuben Ashford ignored the glares around him as he threaded his way through the wounded. It was hard to blame them. After all, they had attacked a retreat and taken relatively heavy losses with no result.<p>

"Worst operation since Alamut," a Ranger was saying as he walked by.

"Una just called, the Kururugi retreat in Hokkaido was empty," a slightly tanned woman reported as she put away her phone.

Though the legal term was "private security contractor," Misae Sabe of BlackHill Services LLC made no attempt to hide her status as a mercenary.

Dressed in a dark T-shirt and a bulletproof vest, the native Britannian irregular looked out of place among the much better-equipped rangers.

"We're just coming up with blanks, aren't we?" Misae noted with a touch of amusement.

"Doesn't matter much to you, does it?"

"Yep. As long as we get paid," the mercenary replied with a grin. "Still, you guys could run a tiny army with all the PMCs you've contracted."

"We might have lost our noble status, but we're anything but poor," Ashford replied. Though he had gained some weight since his time teaching at Colchester, the former noble remained reasonably fit for a man whose brown hair was starting to go white.

"All to find a boy and girl."

"…"

"What's so important about these kids?"

Weaving his way through the wounded, Ashford sighed. "These two children are related to some very important people."

"Like what, a Duke? Or are these your illegitimate children?"

"They're illegitimate now, but they aren't mine," Ashford replied hurriedly. "These Britannian children are very important to me."

Misae raised her eyebrows. "And these Britannian children are so important that you'd send mercenaries all over Japan based on rumors?"

"I had solid intel the children were here—"

"…children?"

Ashford blinked as he turned. A ranger was looking for him from on top of his gurney, accompanied by a pacific islander comrade.

"You said children?"

Ashford felt his heart leap as he ran over. A paramedic stepped in front of him. "Sir, we're about to airlift this patient—"

Without a second glance, Misae stuck out her hand and brushed the paramedic aside as Ashford stepped past to the soldier, identified on his uniform as Pvt. Jackson.

"Did you say something about children?"

"Yeah…I saw these two kids…four kids…two of them were Japanese."

"And the other two?"

"I think they were Britannian. This one dark-haired kid looked kind of Asian, but he spoke English with a high Britannian accent."

"Where'd they go?"

"Don't know, they shot me," Jackson replied with what looked like a shrug turned into a painful yelp.

As the gurney was lifted up onto the waiting helicopter, Ashford turned to Misae, who grinned at the disgruntled paramedic.

"Get ready your men, Misae."

Misae sighed. "Well, you did pay us…I thought the trail had gone cold."

Ashford smiled, a hopeful smile.

"It seems like it hasn't gone completely frigid."

* * *

><p><strong>End of Chapter Notes<strong>

* * *

><p>[1] Yakuza Structure – Yakuza are organized by traditional "sworn family" structures, not unlike the Mafia. The term <em>Oyabun<em>, that of leader, designates a "foster father," and each of the younger members, _Kobun_, are adopted sons. There is a strong element of tradition and folklore in Japan about the Yakuza (who used to exist as a legitimate organization in feudal Japan), and more romantic tales dictate that the early _Oyabun_ adopted from orphans and sons rejected by their family and give them a place. Like the modern mafia, the modern Yakuza are most certainly an illegal organization, dealing in racketeering, prostitution, drugs, and corporate embezzlement, but, like the Mafia, they do hold a system of honor (i.e. they are against thievery, and some are against drug trade) and have been known to assist in society, such as assisting in cases of natural disasters such as the Fukushima earthquake.

[2] Underskirt Pictures – Yes, it's true. Japan has had many cases of particularly lecherous fans of celebrities taking underskirt pictures with hidden cameras. To prevent this, Japanese phones cannot have their shutter sounds disabled. ww w . wire d gadgetlab / 2008 / 07 / pervert-alert-j/

[3]Natto – a traditional Japanese convenience dish made from fermented (note: rotten. Fermentation involves waiting for bacteria to break down the food and form different compounds, just like what happens with corpses and meat left out too long) soybeans. It's an acquired taste, and the smell is…pungent.

[4] Sniping is not Call of Duty – it is a lot of math. The battles shown in Call of Duty, closer to urban combat, would be better suited to the designated marksman in an infantry squad as opposed to an actual sniper, whose targets may be as far as one and a half miles away ( news . sky stor y/ 777941/super-sniper-kills-taliban-1-5-miles-away). Being a good sniper is less about lining up a target than performing many calculations while accounting from effects as random as altitude to temperature. At Kiritsugu's range with a strong wind, it might be necessary to adjust the aim several feet away from the target in order to get a hit.

[5] Barrel configuration – The Steyr AUG's gun barrel can be switched to allow for both short-range machine gun fire or long-range rifle fire.


	16. Chapter 6: Zero Eos

**Author's Preface: Apologies for the long wait, I ran into a long period of writer's block with a section.**

**Nevertheless, I am back and back to writing. Hopefully I won't go into hiatus as I did last time.**

**A clarification: "George Ashford" has been replaced with "Reuben Ashford" to conform with Canon. A mistake on my part.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6 - Zero Eos<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Saturday, February 6th, 2010 A.T.B., 0900 Hours Tokyo Time<strong>

**Kururugi Family Compound, Nation of Japan**

The green-haired woman watched from among the primroses[1] as the two boys ran off towards their home.

"He's a willful one," she muttered to seemingly nobody in particular, shaking off a few loose dead leaves as she stood up.

Smiling wryly, C.C. brushed a few clinging bits of debris off the traditional _yukata_ she wore[2]. "That would be his father's genes speaking, wouldn't it? You were rather good at hiding—" her voice trailed off as she turned her head towards the vague outline in the trees.

"You're rather good at hiding your presence."

"Does it disturb you?"

"Not particularly. People will think you're of the shady sort if you hide in the trees, though."

"Sorry, I'm not very used to being in the spotlight," the figure said as she walked out from the tree line.

"I don't think the ancient Japanese intended a _Yukata_ to be worn with a leather jacket."

Ryougi Shiki shrugged with a careless grin as she brushed a dead leaf off her yellow Kimono. "I think it looks cool."

C.C. plucked at the fabric of her Yuakta. "I suppose, given that I am wearing your Yukata, that I shouldn't be questioning your concepts of 'cool.'"

"It's fine," Shiki replied breezily, "It's the one I was summoned in. Blue's not really my color ya know."

C.C. smiled maliciously. "It's a little tight around the chest, though."

"Do you want to get cut?"

"A joke, a joke," C.C. said quickly.

"Don't forget you're prisoner #2," Shiki said with a rather dangerous grin.

"Hopefully we can change that," C.C. muttered to herself.

"Oh, by the way, where is Prisoner #1?"

"He'll be back soon," C.C. clarified. "He just went to get directions."

Shiki thought about it about a moment and then shrugged. "Ahh. I don't have a time limit, and I'm not in a hurry to go home, I guess…" Pausing, she flipped open what looked like a switchblade with a rather angelic smile. "…but I do hope you're not trying to escape."

"Of course not. It's rather hard to run with a Yukata anyway."

"Yeah. Also, legs come off pretty quickly."

"My, my, aren't we enthusiastic," C.C. sighed. This trip was already turning out far more exciting than she had bargained for.

* * *

><p><strong>1313 Hours Tokyo Time<strong>

**Chuo expressway, Tokyo Outskirts**

"Drive 4 kilometers, and then turn left at Exit 13 onto National Route 137. _Conduisez-vous cent mètre, et apres tournez-vou_—"

"Maiya, do you even speak French?"

"Turning left at exit 13 onto national route—."

"Yes, I heard. Follow the directions to Raiga's safe house."

"Acknowledged."

Emiya Kiritsugu silently examined his AUG in order to distract himself from the uncomfortable silence in the APC. With all hatches and the defensive cupola closed, the inside or the Type 96 APC was lit only through the four side-mounted firing ports, none of which were particularly large.

The atmosphere was less one of awkwardness than exhaustion. The Britannian boy and girl both seemed to be asleep. In contrast, the two Japanese children looked wide awake, though the boy was seemed to be shaking a little.

The term used to be Shell-shock, though the more correct modern iteration would a Combat Stress Reaction. Given that four children with no training had been thrown into a combat situation, he was surprised things weren't worse. Kiritsugu was no military psychologist, and outside of the bare basics he lacked the skills to deal with CSR. The faster he got them to their destinations and out of his hands, the better for them.

Then again, maybe it was better they live with it. With Britannian invading, their previously safe, tranquil lives could be expected to get violent real fast, and perhaps it was better they learn how to live in that kind of world.

The younger children were, as is, liabilities. They weren't at an age where they could be expected to function in a combat situation even if they were trained and a weapon. The operational and logistical costs would far override the military benefit.

The oldest one, though…

Immediately, instantaneously, he rejected the idea, and almost instantly realized how illogical that was.

She looked to be 16-18. That was the perfect age to start military training, and she looked as if she was in good physical condition, and showed traces of having participated in martial arts—if worst came to worst, she was probably the best candidate is he really needed fire support.

Yet, for some reason, it was the absolute last thing he wanted to do.

Something about her reminded him too much of something he had long since thrown away.

"Standing" up in a low crouch, Kiritsugu walked through the open hatch that led to the crowded driver's seat. Crowded against the left-sided engine, which filled what would normally be the shotgun seat, this modification of the Type 96 carried a bulletproof window as opposed to the safer but more restrictive periscopes used on battlefield models. A cheap GPS had been stuck to the bulletproof glass, from which an obnoxiously calm female voice spoke in a mix of Japanese and French. Normally, Kiritsugu would not have done this kind of thing until he had thoroughly researched his route—but he had been in worse positions before, and given the urgency, he would hope that the legal protection Fujimura Raiga gave him would be sufficient to justify him stealing a JSDF APC.

"How long until we get to our destination?"

Maiya took a quick glance at the GPS. "20 minutes."

"Get off the highway as soon as you can. Too many traffic cameras." Raiga had assured him that those would be taken care of, but Kiritsugu disliked trusting the word of any person, regardless of how powerful he was.

"Roger," Maiya replied, voice as neutral as ever. It was a testament to the JSDF's efficiency that the highway remained largely clear save for military convoys, many of which were carrying a rather sorrowful mix of civilian families. With the specter of the mass downing of the Chinese and Japanese forces in the Coral Sea, the roads were now the only reliable way with which troops and equipment could be moved.

Aware that a mass exodus by private car would have completely closed down all the highways to military use, the Japanese Government had rapidly moved to close down most of the major highways in the greater Tokyo Area, managing evacuations through military transports where absolutely necessary, clearing the highways for motor vehicle use. Kiritsugu and Maiya's APC looked just like the many others that were streaming back and forth.

Maiya drove in silence—she was never the talkative type, and there was no real need to do so.

Kiritsugu took the time to watch Maiya.

Maiya had first picked up a gun far earlier than that girl in the passenger's compartment—in fact, before Kiritsugu had even met her. Through Kiritsugu's training, she had become the perfect partner for him—an unquestioning, skilled and efficient fighter and magus, the perfect soldier.

In terms of compatibility, she and Kiritsugu, whether by training or circumstance, were perfect for each other.

Yet, Kiritsugu had felt something when he had seen that girl, ready to pull that trigger on the Britannian soldier. Something that made him wish that she and Maiya would never be the same.

* * *

><p>"Table for six, please."<p>

"Of course, this way."

As he followed the (rather small) waitress to his table, Emiya Kiritsugu examined the interior of Wagnaria Family Restaurant.

As expected with the current war going on, the restaurant was empty save for a few waiters and waitresses cleaning the (already largely-spotless) tables.

There was nothing that suggested any association to the Fujimura group. Yet, for a small suburb and a private business, the rather elaborate wooden décor and rich lighting seemed somewhat high class.

"Sit," Kiritsugu quietly ordered as he stood aside for his four charges, who sat down with a mix of weariness, nervousness and suspicion.

Ignoring the glares from the Britannian boy, Kiritsugu accepted the six menus from the cheerful waitress and passed them around.

"Order something."

"I'm not hungry," the Britannian boy snapped.

Kiritsugu withdrew a cigarette from his box, and then clicked his tongue with a hint of irritation as he noticed the no smoking sign and the stutters of the almost-tearful waitress.

Returning the cigarette to the box, Kiritsugu glanced at the Britannian boy's sister, who seemed to be bashfully holding her menu. It took Kiritsugu a second to remember that she was blind.

"Get something for your sister then."

As the suddenly-reinvigorated waitress tottered off happily with the orders for five platters and a glass of orange juice, Maiya gave Kiritsugu a short nod.

For all intents and purposes, this particular "safe house" seemed just like any other family restaurant.

Then again, with a several hour drive ahead, food would quiet the children down…hopefully.

Childcare was not one of his strong points, Kiritsugu reflected.

"Eat," he ordered as the short waiter unloaded a few trays.

He was met with silence, as the Britannian boy shot a glare at the others, causing them to stop their tentative first bites.

Kiritsugu tried to hide his sigh. This child had the trust issues of an African Warlord.

Ignoring the boy's glares, he picked up a fork and took a bite.

As the others looked on, Kiritsugu chewed as silently as he could, a habit he had picked up when Jubstacheit von Einzbern made a point of outdoing Kiritsugu in excessive chewing noises at the table. For a man 250 years old, the head of the Von Einzbern could be awfully petty.

As expected, the smell of the food combined with Kiritsugu's chewing was enough to convince the children to tentatively begin poking at their food. Maiya, on the other side of the table, looked almost amused as she, too, began to eat.

"Excuse me, sir?"

The employee who stood in front of Kiritsugu wore a small placard that identified her as the chief of staff.

"The Manager would like to have a word for you," she began gently. Blonde, with a face that seemed to have been designed for smiling, Kiritsugu felt underwhelmed. The staff chief was the first line of defense when it came to an unruly customer. Having somebody who looked weak…

Then again, the sword at her side that Raiga's granddaughter was eyeing with interest helped.

Putting down his fork, Kiritsugu stood up with a meaningful look to Maiya, who nodded in response.

* * *

><p>"Please hold on a moment, sir,"<p>

Passing through the kitchen, the chief of staff stopped to pick up a sundae or some sort from the cook before continuing onto the staff room, all the while humming happily.

"There you are, Yachiyo."

If it were possible, Kiritsugu could have sworn that the chief of staff had glowed as she and Kiritsugu turned to the bored-looking, dark-haired woman Kiritsugu took to be the manager.

"I've brought the customer and your parfait, Kyoko-_san_!"

"Thanks. Get back to work."

Taking the rather large cup of frozen cream, strawberry and sugar, the manager waved the chief of staff off, who happily acquiesced.

As the door closed behind them, the manager regarded Kiritsugu.

"You have Raiga's granddaughter?"

"She's eating outside."

The manager took a look at the door, as if hoping to see the girl in the doorway. With an uninterested shrug, she spooned a mouthful of the parfait into her mouth.

"Raiga told me to call him the moment you got here," she said dryly, bits of cream and melted ice cream dribbling out her mouth as she spoke.

"I…see," Kiritsugu responded.

"Not an expressive one, are you?" the Manager remarked as she reached for the nearby phone.

"You're one to talk," Kiritsugu replied as he took the phone.

"Kiritsugu!" The gruff, demanding voice on the other side of the line was tinged by what seemed like panic.

"I have the children—" Kiritsugu began, but what followed was cut off by what sounded like the bastard child of a laugh, a cough and a wheeze at the same time, imbibing the approximate sound of a man choking.

"_Oyabun_!"

"Boss, are you alright?!"

"Sir, is everything alright?"

The other line was instantly crowded by the sound of concerned men.

"Yohane get off me fer god's sakes! I'm fine!"

Kiritsugu tried not to sigh in the phone as he smiled. It appeared that the Fujimura Group was functioning in the same state of controlled chaos it always had.

A moment later, a slightly hoarse-sounding voice came back on the line.

"First Vladivostok and now this—once again you save my skin," Raiga almost roared into the phone. "I owe you."

"It was on the way—"

"None of that now, Kiritsugu. I'm sorry I made you go through that for that idiot."

Kiritsugu frowned. Raiga had certainly expected him to have to fight against the Japanese troops that were present, but…

"I'm sure you already know this, Fujimura-san but there were Britannian special forces at the Kururugi compound that appeared to be targeting the children."

For once, Raiga sounded contemplative. "I heard. So somebody on the other side was moving to get the children as well. It's worrying."

"Where should I drop off the children?"

"Wait at the restaurant with Kyouko," Raiga replied gruffly, "I'm on the way with my boys. I can clear things up with the JSDF or the old guard, but I don't know if the Britannians will give up after this. We'll escort you to Fuyuki afterwards. We'll be there in an hour or two."

Kiritsugu consulted his watch. He was still ahead of schedule—after all, he had not expected to reach Fuyuki until early tomorrow morning.

"Alright. I'll make sure the children don't run off."

"And, Kiritsugu."

"Yes?"

"Thanks. You know, Taiga might be a moron, but she's still my only granddaughter."

Kiritsugu felt himself smiling slightly. For the wizened leader of a crime organization, Fujimura Raiga seemed to be having some trouble expressing himself.

"B-but it's not like I like her or anything! N-not at all!"

Kiritsugu's smile melted into a disgusted grimace as he hung up the phone.

It is not the business of seventy-year old men to act tsundere[3].

* * *

><p>"He tends to do that," the Manager remarked through a mouthful of parfait as she noticed Kiritsugu's expression.<p>

"You've known Fujimura for a while?"

"I worked with him in the past," the manager responded.

Kiritsugu blinked. Though the general impression of the manager had been someone unconcerned with the running of her business, her atmosphere, at least, did not seem like that of a delinquent.

On the other hand, it was a lot easier to transition from a delinquent to a functioning member of society than for someone who had been trained to kill magus to rejoin. Interpol wasn't nearly as forgiving.

"You seem to be doing pretty well," Kiritsugu noted.

"I help deal with some of Raiga's stray dogs," the manager said with meaningful glance at Kiritsugu, "and I get a bit of money. It's worked like that for a decade now."

"A decade? Then you're actually pretty ol—"

Kiritsugu's sense of danger lit up.

_Ah. There's the atmosphere of a delinquent._

"—pretty young-looking."

"Ah. Well, I want something to eat, so don't let me keep you. Yachiyo, something to eat!"

* * *

><p>Kiritsugu returned to a table that seemed quite as it had been when he had left.<p>

It was, however, a differently quality of silence, less the silence of distrust than the silence of fatigue.

"They're asleep?" Kiritsugu asked as he sat down.

Maiya nodded from across the table.

Picking up his fork again, Kiritsugu reached across for his plate—and frowned as it came up empty. He didn't recall eating all that much before he left.

"They were hungry," Maiya stated simply.

"I see." Kiritsugu checked his cup. At least his coffee had not been taken. "Maiya, I'll be staying here for an hour or two. Go ahead of me to Fuyuki and then pick up Iri."

Maiya nodded, and then stopped. "Is it alright for you to not be there?"

Kiritsugu closed his eyes. "This was how we planned to fight this war. Iri will understand."

"Of course." And with that, Maiya was gone, probably off to commandeer some kind of transport to the private airfield chartered by the EU Embassy.

Kiritsugu leaned back as he took a sip out of his cup.

Once he arrived at Fuyuki, he would immediately have to get into the job. The servants had already been summoned—and the war may have already started in his absence.

This hour would be a good time to unwind.

* * *

><p><strong>1300 Hours Tokyo Time<strong>

**Greater Tokyo Area, Nation of Japan**

"You know you look really dumb in a suit, right?"

"And you look like a Britannian tourist in that Yukata."

"Can't be helped. You know how she is."

"Fair enough." Sen, Immortal of the Khagan Thought Elevator, muttered as he adjusted his natty-looking suit. C.C. suppressed a grin. Today Sen had exchanged his (rather loosely-worn) suit for an old relic that looked like it should only come in shades of black, white and faded sepia. On the former Mangudai it looked like a poorly-knit sweater on a wolfhound.

"The irony is that it's still younger than you, Sen."

"Silence, witch."

"Having fun down there, Prisoner #1 and Prisoner #2? Not planning to escape, right?"

"No, of course not."

"Good, good, carry on then."

C.C. watched the girl in the orange yukata skip up the long temple steps, humming happily like a child let loose in a field of dandelions.

Ryougi Shiki—a girl who seemed more interested in finding something interesting to eat than her self-proclaimed mission.

Shiki stopped to turn around with feigned annoyance.

"Aren't you worried about being late?"

"Yes, yes," C.C. replied with a smile she couldn't help.

Her attitude of seemingly perpetual wonder seemed far more appropriate for a much younger child (or, as Sen remarked, Yunyun).

It was hard to imagine that the girl who was currently beaming at her with a carefree smile was her captor.

And yet, this girl reawakened a fear that C.C. had not felt in several centuries—the fear of death.

After all, this girl had managed something that many had tried and failed to do for centuries.

Ryougi Shiki could kill Immortals.

Mai Mai had already been killed by Shiki's own admission.

And C.C. and Sen were next on the list along with the other Immortals for reasons Shiki had not adequately explained.

"I need to kill you, or else you guys will be used to make something really bad happen," in her own words.

C.C. chewed on her lip contemplatively.

It seemed like Shiki was, in a very abstract way, aware of V.V.'s plan, the plan that the Immortals had split apart to prevent.

The Activation of the Sword of Akasha—the centralization of all humanity into one mind, one moment, one location.

And yet, had not Shiki already ended that?

After all, he had already killed Mai Mai—C.C.'s contacts in the Queen's Rangers had confirmed the body. While each of the immortals controlled a thought elevator, all seven of the Codes Geass were required to gain access to the Sword of Akasha.

With Mai Mai's death, one of the codes should have been permanently destroyed.

It should be theoretically impossible for V.V. to go forwards with his plan.

Yet Shiki seemed confident that her job wasn't over.

"I'd know when it's done," she had said with no further explanation.

And then she had received information from informants in the Directorate that V.V. had left for Japan.

"I'm surprised you listened," C.C. thought out loud.

Shiki turned around midhop. "Say something?"

"Seems rather odd that you'd prefer to go on a road trip with the people you're supposed to kill. Not that I'm complaining or anything," she added.

Shiki thought about it before shrugging with a boyish grin. "Eh, I miss Japan. It's not quite the one I left, but that's fine. The order with which I kill you folks isn't important to me. If all of you are getting together for me, I'm not complaining."

Looking through the outstretched hand she used to block out a beam of sunshine, Shiki's grin slackened for a moment to be replaced with a contemplative expression.

"It's not like I'm in a rush to go back anyway."

_Going back?_ C.C. wondered as she walked past Shiki towards the end to the line of stairs.

"Well, no matter," Shiki said to herself brightly. "Well, Prisoner #2, where are we going?"

"We're almost there," C.C. replied.

Sen grimaced. "C.C., maybe I should wait outside."

"I'm sure she would consider your absence a greater rudeness than your presence."

Sen only grunted in response.

"I'm being left out of the loop here, aren't I," Shiki remarked. "Who are we meeting?"

C.C. took a deep breath as she neared the clearing. "An old associate."

* * *

><p>"<em>Milady, sometimes I really can't understand you."<em>

"_What's that supposed to mean, Sasaki?"_

"_Disqualified? For the color of your _shinai_, of all things?"_

"_It's my _Tora-Shinai! _It cheers me on!_"

"_Milady, you probably could have won the tournament if you hadn't insisted on using that."_

"_Sasaki, there are some things a man must stand for!"_

"…_Milady, I think I question your priorities—ahh, the _Oyabun_ is here."_

_With a polite bow, Sasaki held opened the door as Fujimura Taiga seated herself onto the Fujimura Group's car._

_For once, Fujimura Raiga did not spontaneously combust into old-men scented flames of rage as soon as the door closed._

"_Back to the residence, Fujyou," he quietly ordered the chauffeur, who obeyed silently._

_Though the silence remained, the undercurrent of tension within the cramped compartment could have probably powered an apartment building._

_Fujimura Raiga broke the silence first. "You were disqualified from the nationals?"_

"_You mad?" Taiga responded with a smile that bore little mirth._

_Raiga looked out the window without much response._

"_If you're holding it in, you may as well let it out now," Taiga prodded. "I know you wanted me to win it."_

"_I've long since learned not to expect anything from you."_

_Silently and all-too-quickly, Fujyou rolled down his windows to show his identification to two old guard soldiers, both of whom saluted with blank expressions._

_Something seemed off about the maids and manservants as they bowed, though it didn't seem like Raiga had noticed._

"_Ah. Here's Sergeant Kikuchi to greet us."_

_With an electronic drone, the passenger seat window rolled down as Sergeant Kikuchi walked over with a quick bow._

Wait, that's not quite right.

"_A long trip, Fujimura-_san?_"_

"_Nothing special sergeant," Raiga replied with a laugh._

Kikuchi couldn't possibly be there.

"_Ahh, the young master is with you." _

"_Unfortunately. Taiga, say hello."_

_With a growing sense of dread, Taiga turned slowly to face a sight she somehow guessed she didn't want to see._

After all, Sergeant Kikuchi was—

"_Good to see you again, Young Lady," Sergeant Kikuchi said, his head bent slightly in a way that would have seen quizzical or intentional if not for the bullet hole on one side._

_Now that Taiga thought about it, how was sergeant Kikuchi speaking when his jaw looked like an accident in a butcher shop—_

* * *

><p>Fujimura Taiga awoke with a start.<p>

How long had she been asleep? When had she fallen asleep?

She had planned to watched over Suzaku and the two Britannian children.

Upbraiding herself, she looked around—and, with a flood of relief, saw Suzaku's tousled hair laid out on the table, his mouth slightly greasy with food. Across from him, Nunnally's head rested on her brother's shoulder, both of them also fast asleep.

"You're awake, Fujimura-_san_?"

Taiga looked up and blinked.

The man who had essentially abducted them from the Kururugi family compound looked up from over a pair of slightly antiquated-looking reading glasses[4]. Though his expression remained severe, it seemed less unfriendly than more preoccupied, partly due to the sheaf of papers he held in his hand.

With his long jacket folded on the side and his dress shirt and tie slightly loosened, he looked more like a clerk or office worker than a man who she had already seen kill several people.

"Are you alright?"

Taiga nodded silently.

"Your grandfather will be happy to hear that. Don't worry, he'll be here in a bit to pick you up."

_...The Old Man again._

"…Are you sure he isn't just here to pick up Suzaku?" Taiga muttered glumly.

The man looked up from over his paperwork.

"Why do you say that?"

Taiga blinked. She hadn't expected the man to respond. Sasaki, whose girlfriend/wife always seemed to be having trouble with basic housework, rarely had time to notice.

"Well, you know, the old man and I aren't exactly peas in a pod," she said with a hasty laugh. A better comparison would be crude oil and sea water.

Fujimura Raiga and Fujimura Taiga had never quite managed to work out that grandfather-granddaughter bond business.

Since childhood, Grandfather and Granddaughter had lived together.

Raiga's consistently high expectations for the daughter of his favorite (and, as Taiga often mentioned, only) son rankled with Taiga, who had consistently failed to meet them, more out of spite than out of lack of ability.

Perhaps it was their proximity that had bred their animosity—Sasaki often joked that "One mountain cannot hold two Taiga[5]." Regardless, the two Fujimura could not sit in a room together without an argument.

"Trust me," the man replied as he flipped through one of his many printouts, "I wasn't on very good terms with my old man either."

"Can't be as bad as me and the old man," Taiga muttered.

"My old man was the one who got me into this job."

Taiga laughed, slightly awkwardly. That was a misstep. Sasaki's expression darkened whenever fathers were mentioned. "Well. That's pretty bad."

The man pushed his reading glasses up as he looked outside the window. "I guess what he saw as important and I saw as important were different."

Taiga said nothing—though there was no perceptible change in tone, she felt as if the man believed what he was saying

"But at the end, now that I look back, I do think that he believed what he was doing was best for me."

Setting down his sheaf of notes, the man looked up for the first time, directly at Taiga.

"I believe that, at the root of things, that all fathers do what they do for their children."

Taiga blinked, almost with a snort. That statement was evidently absurd at face value. There were thousand cases of parental neglect, honor killings, and child abuse around the world.

This grown man, however had declared that statement with a sincerity that struck Taiga as almost childlike.

Almost as if he wanted to convince himself.

Taiga looked down, as if embarrassed at seeing something she shouldn't have.

Though he looked reasonably old, this man felt as if she were the older one.

Right now this man seemed less like the soldier who she had seen gun down men than a slightly-awkward man-child caught outside his depth.

It was almost kind of sad.

How could someone so childlike, who could make such a ridiculous, juvenile statement forgive himself for taking the life of another?

Without warning, the man chuckled with a self-depreciating "tch" as he scratched his already-messy hair.

"Ah, who am I kidding? I'm probably the person least-qualified to say these things…"

The man's awkward chuckles slowly died off, to be replaced by a seemingly even more awkward silence. As if trying to break that, the man looked at his watch.

"Hm, your grandfather should be here in a whi—"

"Why did you stop me?" Taiga blurted out before she could stop herself.

The man blinked and stopped midsentence. "Excuse me?"

"At the Kururugi compound. You gave me that handgun and taught me how to shoot, right?"

The man nodded silently, as if a little confused.

"So why did you shoot it out of my hand? Did you expect me not to shoot?"

The man said nothing for a moment, his expression empty in a silence that seemed to last forever.

"…It wasn't that I didn't expect you to shoot," the man said slowly, contemplatively. "It was more like I was afraid that you would shoot."

"Huh?"

"I was afraid because I knew already that you were going to shoot."

And then, abruptly, without warning, the man broke into a smile—a self-depreciating smile, but one that also showed, for the first time, the same relief and happiness that he had shown briefly at the clan compound.

"I was scared because you were about to take the first step on the road I took."

And, in that moment, Taiga realized—that this man had never forgiven himself for killing men. Somehow, looking at that sad smile, Fujimura Taiga knew that this man regretted every life he took, hated himself for it.

Through that brief smile, Taiga saw the man-child who had hid himself behind an apathetic expression and a handgun.

And, before she could stop herself, Taiga spoke.

"Umm, mister…your name…"

"Emiya, Emiya Kiritsugu," the man replied, his voice quizzical.

"K-kiritsugu-_san_, I think that you're a good person!" The moment she said that, Taiga felt her face heat up as she immediately looked down.

_What the hell was that?!_

Taiga felt like slamming her head on the table, preferably hard enough that she could forget ever saying such a kitschy line. She didn't know anything about this man, and they had known each other for all of several hours, most of which she was asleep.

But at the same time, she felt that she really believed what she said.

Slowly, she peeked up to look at the Kiritsugu's reaction.

For a moment, he looked dumbstruck, as if he had no idea how to respond. And then, slowly, he broke into a smile.

"Thank you, Fujimura-_san_. That meant a lot."

"T-taiga is fine," Taiga mumbled under her breath.

"Ah, then thank you, Taiga."

_He heard?!_

Thankfully, the sound of a breaking plate from a purple-haired waitress turned Kiritsugu's attention away from the steam hissing out of Fujimura Taiga's ears.

* * *

><p>The shrine looked ancient and yet pristine, as if it had been forgotten by time. It had.<p>

And the long-haired woman who was tending to the grounds with an incongruously modern leaf blower, C.C. knew, was nearly as old.

"You look just as beautiful, C.C.," former Immortal of the Kaminejima Thought Elevator Nene spoke with a soft, slightly hoarse voice. The long veil of dark hair that covered half her face in a _Ring_-like fashion aside, her appearance echoed the voice, beautiful in an incredibly low-key, nondescript fashion, the kind of face you would appreciate in a clothing store brochure and forget a moment after.

"Enjoying your retirement, I see," C.C. responded, taking careful care not to stare to carefully at the wall of dark hair.

"The leaves don't blow themselves." Looking up, Nene smiled as she caught sight of the man desperately trying to look less awkward in his mothball-scented suit. "Ahh, Sen. It's been a while."

"mm," Sen grunted in response.

"I trust Yunyun is doing well in your care?"

Sen's mouth twitched slightly. "She's dead."

Somehow, C.C. couldn't think of some snarky way to break the silence that followed.

"Hey, you look like Sadako from _Ring_!"

C.C. felt the sick urge to laugh as Shiki skipped up the steps and grinned at Nene._ This is going great_.

"…I get that sometimes," Nene finally said lightly. "Perhaps we could catch up inside."

"I see," Nene said finally as she put down her ceramic cup.

C.C. bowed slightly. "What happened to Yunyun was my fault."

"No matter," Nene replied evenly, "people are born and die every day."

Nene glanced across the table at Sen, who fidgeted. "I must say, though, Sen, you are rather good at this apprentice business."

Shiki shot a sidelong glance at Sen, who was looking distinctly and unusually uncomfortable.

"What's with them?" she whispered to C.C. as she leaned over.

"Nene and Sen have some history together," C.C. replied.

"Sen was the one who gave me my Geass," Nene said. Refilling Shiki's empty cup along with her own from across the table, Nene brushed aside her veil of hair, momentarily flashing the malformed mess of burnt skin that lay behind it before hiding it again.

"…and that. Before I gave my code to my apprentice Yunyun, I asked that Sen treat her like he did me. I'm very glad he did."

C.C. winced as she watched Sen almost wilt. The fact that Nene had managed that without an ounce of hostility seemed to make it sound even more damning. All the upbringing of Edo-era court culture was not sufficient to smother Nene's (in C.C.'s opinion terrible) personality—it had simply taught her to express it in characteristically Japanese way.

"But enough about happy memories," Nene commented as she sat back down. "So V.V. has come to Japan knowing one of the codes is lost?"

"His men were the one who went after Mai Mai, and he's most certainly dead," C.C. replied. "His plan should have been foiled then."

"As the guardians of the Sword of Akasha, we Immortals have always had the road that reaches directly into Akasha, if we ever had the will to reach into it," Nene noted with a smile, "but there have been people who have been trying to reach it without us since we were born."

C.C. nodded slowly. "One wonders whether our existences ever stopped the Magus."

The associated academics, madmen, prodigies and innovators who were covered under the blanket term of Magus had always had a poor affinity with the Immortals and Geassholders of the Geass Directorate—only natural, given that the former were those who sought to reach Akasha, the Root, for humanity, and the latter were those who were tasked with protecting it from humanity.

"The Magus have tried for millennia without succeeding," Sen growled.

"You know, they say that an infinite amount of monkeys typing infinitely into typewriters would someday replicate all the works of Shakespeare," Nene noted. "We the Immortal are meant to protect the road to Akasha into all infinity. Statistically the odds favor the Magus…eventually."

"So V.V. has found a way that works, then."

"Assuming that Shiki-_san_ is correct and suffering from some religious Hong Xiuqian-esque delusion[5.5], then we can assume she has," Nene replied with a smile at Shiki.

"I don't think I'm delusional," Shiki replied brightly.

Nene's smile didn't waver. "That's what delusional people say, dear."

C.C. furrowed her brow. "So the magus have managed to circumvent us? In Japan?"

Nene looked up. "Have you ever heard of the legend of the Holy Grail?"

"I've watched Indiana Jones, if that counts."

"Close enough. It's kind of low-key in the association, but apparently some very dedicated magus have been trying to summon it."

Sen's eyebrows twitched skeptically. "Here?"

"It happens every sixty years or so, starting 1830 ATB. Allegedly, the Holy Grail will materialize in a small town south of the Capital after a battle of some sorts."

"…I can see why it's pretty low-key," C.C. said. Even in the world of immortals and magus, it seemed rather inconceivable that anybody would decide to bring the cup from the Last Supper to an island in the Far East.

"If the explanation sounds sketchy, that would be because it is," Nene commented. "There probably is no real grail involved—the Fuyuki Grail War has been an attempt, like so many others, to reach the root."

"…and they have succeeded?"

"We would have known if they had," Nene replied with a smile. "This has happened three times already, without result. But it seems V.V. believes that it'll work this time."

C.C. looked at Nene. "And do you believe it will?"

Nene shrugged. "Doesn't concern me. I'm just an old woman living out the rest of her days."

C.C. laughed wryly. "That sounds a little strange coming from an old lady with the body of a twenty year old."

"You're one to talk."

"I must ask, though. This seems like a random bit of trivia to carry around."

"It's not exactly a conversation starter," Nene agreed as she poured a fifth refill into Sen's cup the moment he had put down his cup. "Oh, whoops," she added pleasantly as, with a hiss of steam, half a cup's worth of boiling tea tipped onto Sen's suit, filling the already musty-smelling room with the sharp smell of mothballs.

C.C. gazed at Nene pointedly. "I assume you didn't pick this up from gossiping with the local housewives?"

Nene laughed. "Tactful. I heard it from V.V., of course."

Sen's hand strayed towards his coat pockets, but stopped after a glance from C.C., who continued smiling. "V.V. was here?"

Nene nodded. "Two hours or so ago. I wasn't aware bloodstained shirts were in vogue with the Britannian Nobility."

Unbidden, the image of a bloodstained V.V. and Nene with half her face in its usual medium rare quality having a tea party raced across C.C.'s mind. Noting Sen's discomfort as he fidgeted in his wet suit, C.C. decided to suppress her laugh. Her code could heal wounds, but it wouldn't fix a ruined Yukata, and she wasn't sure to what extent she could test Shiki's patience.

Sighing, C.C. stood up. "…Well, we've imposed on you for long enough and drank two kettles' worth of your tea, and it seems like we have to get back on the road."

"V.V. wants you to chase him, you know," Nene remarked as Shiki yawned and Sen stood up with an expression of relief. "After all, both of you hold the two remaining codes. And who knows, maybe seven are enough."

"We won't be able to stop him just hiding," C.C. responded.

Nene almost seemed to show concern as she escorted C.C. and the others outside. "You're fighting him and two immortals and the whole Geass Directorate. You know how the last immortal who tried that ended up."

C.C. shrugged. "I won't have to worry about that if V.V. succeeds, will I?"

* * *

><p>Fujimura Raiga seemed to be trying to dig a well, judging by the double-time allegro his walking stick was beating on the parking lot pavement.<p>

Emiya Kiritsugu felt a twinge of amusement at the _Oyabun_'s obvious anxiety as watched a hastily assembled fleet of motorcycles, sedans and trucks rolled into the parking lot behind Raiga's tame-looking sedan. Judging by the expressions of some of the men dismounting, they had been expecting a battle. A few units of JSDF soldiers looked ill-at ease from their IFV's.

"Is that where they're holding the young mistress, boss?!"

"We'll tear it down right now!"

Kiritsugu took a quick glance at the manager, who seemed to have produced a bat studded with nails with all the skill of a master faker and the expression of a nuclear reactor on the verge of meltdown.

"Taiga, could you wake up the other children?"

"O-of course," a slightly-flustered Taiga replied as she began shaking the Japanese boy's shoulder.

Donning his jacket, Kiritsugu walked out the automatic doors towards the crowd of what seemed to vary from professional-looking men in suits and sunglasses to what looked like glorified street thugs.

The silence that followed Kiritsugu's entrance died almost instantaneously as the various members of the Fujimura Group turned their attention to Kiritsugu.

"You the bastard that took the young mistress?"

"Want to die?"

"—Wot 'choo starin' at? You 'avin a giggle there mate? I'll bash ye fookin 'ead in I sware on me mum"

"Will all of you be quiet for a minute?!"

The raucous and somewhat bloodthirsty catcalls and jeers coming from the crowd was instantly silenced as a scratchy voice echoed in the sudden silence.

The crowd parted silently like the red sea as Fujimura Raiga stepped out.

Though this was the first time Kiritsugu had seen him in several years, the _Oyabun_ looked the same as he had in Vladivostok, a hunchbacked old man in a brightly colored tiger print _Haori_.

With a mobility that seemed beyond his age, Raiga hobbled rapidly towards Kiritsugu, followed close behind by his bodyguard, a young-looking man in a suit.

"Is she here, Kiritsugu?" he demanded with no preamble.

"Of course," Kiritsugu replied with a smile. "The Britannian children and the Japanese child are here as well—"

"Yes, yes," Raiga replied distractedly as he stalked towards the automatic door, "I'll deal with them once I'm clear about the safety of my grandaughte—"

With an electronic beep, the automatic door slid open.

"Old Man?" Fujimura Taiga blinked in surprise, Suzaku and the others in tow.

"Taiga?" was all Raiga could manage, his expression complicated.

"Old ma—Grandfather, what you said earlier…"

Fujimura Raiga's expression remained unchanged, but his ears reddened, a little bit.

Taiga slowly looked around at the surrounding Yakuza. "Did you call together all these people…?"

As if sensing the awkwardness, the surrounding Yakuza also lapsed into a silence that lasted several moments.

"O-of course not!"

Even Kiritsugu almost spat out the cigarette in his mouth.

"D-do you think I would have gone to such great lengths to rescue my worthless granddaughter? I was only thinking about the feelings of my favorite son! Yeah, that's what it is," Raiga rattled off with a voice that was a bit louder than what was necessary.

For a moment, Taiga looked a little surprised—and then she broke into a grin. "That's what I thought. I was worried you were getting daft, old man."

Raiga turned to his bodyguard, carefully avoiding all eye contact with his granddaughter. "Yohane, help the children to get onboard, I want to speak with Kiritsugu."

As Fujimura Taiga walked past Raiga, Kiritsugu saw her whisper something at her grandfather.

Blinking, Raiga turned towards his granddaughter as she walked towards a waiting (and expensive-looking car). "You say something?"

Halfway into the car, Taiga turned with a grin that seemed far more mischievous than touched. "Nothing!"

Emiya Kiritsugu smiled. They both had their doubts at times, but Fujimura Raiga and Fujimrua Taiga were definitely family.

"She's a strong one," Kiritsugu remarked as he walked up to Raiga.

Raiga laughed, a rheumatic wheeze of a laugh. "Too strong for an old man like me to keep up. I really don't know what to do with her anymore."

Leaning on his cane, Raiga chuckled.

"Nor, for that matter, what to do to repay you, Kiritsugu. Have you ever considered replacing me?"

Kiritsugu had considered shooting him in Vladivostok when they had first met, but perhaps this was not the time to mention that.

"I'm actually thinking of retiring soon, once this job's done," he said instead.

"Ah…got money and a woman or two waiting for you already?"

"Yes, something like that."

Raiga laughed heartily. "I was hoping you'd take over so I could do that. I'd have retired years ago if my subordinates weren't blithering idiots." Walking over to his own car, he opened the door and gestured towards Kiritsugu to enter. "Ride with me for a while. I'll escort you to Fuyuki."

With their summons complete, the Yakuza returned to their vehicles, some slightly disappointed by the lack of bloodshed.

Though many of the Yakuza fanned out to return to their homes, quite a few various motor vehicles continued, a de facto honor guard that combined strangely the JSDF IFVs that escorted the small convoy.

In the large group of moving vehicles, nobody noticed that the occupants of one vehicle had never come out.

"Target moving."

"Alright, keep tailing them. We're on the warpath."

* * *

><p><strong>1638 Hours Tokyo Time<strong>

**Japanese Coast**

While it lay roughly between Hiroshima and Tokyo, the city of Fuyuki lay some distance away from either the vast metropolis that was the capital or the city centers of Hiroshima. Quite a large portion of the route consisted of small highways along the coast.

"Quite the view, huh?" Fujimura Raiga remarked as a few flashes of the late afternoon sun shone through on the bayside road.

Kiritsugu nodded. It was certainly scenic, though he could identify that this would be an easy road to obstruct if the situation required it. Moreover, this road would be a good place for an ambush. If he had to go to Fuyuki alone, he would have preferred a less scenic but safer inland route.

"This is the Japan I prefer to remember," Raiga said. "Back before the Sakuradite boom. When the world ran on Petroleum, we could always just blame Britannia or the Middle Eastern Federation if the oil didn't flow. The Britannians left because they felt there was little of value in Japan.

That's what has managed to protect our independence for so long—because there was little value in claiming us, not to justify the military cost. Once the world switched to Sakuradite, we suddenly became valuable again."

Raiga leaned back onto his seat. "We've been bluffing them since. We've played nice with the EU and the Chinese Federation and even Britannia at times—but we knew that we would get swallowed up in an instant the moment any of them knew we needed them. Even if we win this war, the Chinese or the EU will be next up to try to take us over."

Kiritsugu said nothing, but he knew the truth of it. He had fought in Georgia, Egypt and Ceylon, all nations that had tried to stay outside the influence of the three great powers that had remained following the end of the USSR. Each one had fallen eventually. Without the USSR as a common enemy, each of the three powers had been left with a huge military force that needed resources. Seizure of what had once been called the "Third World[6]" provided an easy alternative—by using your military assets to seize territory, you gained the resources necessary to maintain your military assets. As of now, Japan and the Middle Eastern Federation remained the only nations that had managed to maintain their sovereignty—until now.

"The EU and China will not come," Raiga sighed. "If they come, it will be to pick up the scraps and do what Britannia is doing now. Even if we win now, there is no guarantee that China will not turn on us. "

"…Do you not think the JSDF and your men will be able to win?"

"They might," Raiga conceded. "But when they do, what then? Will we fight the EU or the Chinese next? On Japanese Soil?"

And then the sedan rounded a bend in the mountain road—

It was a scene Kiritsugu had seen in Chechnya and Ceylon.

Smoke billowed up from where they had been concealed by tree cover.

What had once been a rather scenic seaside town seemed to be hovering under a heavy layer of black smoke.

Kiritsugu looked around. There seemed to be no living individuals or emergency services to be seen—it appeared that the military had already evacuated this particular town.

Watching it all, Raiga closed his eyes.

"My father told me all about the firebombings in '45. Whole cities burnt to the ground. What use will it be flying a Japanese flag over a pile of rubble? Japan will have to choose a side eventually. Why not Britannia…"

Raiga glanced at Kiritsugu, who kept his expression neutral. Though he was Japanese by race, he had spent most of his life outside of Japan. The concept of Nationalism meant very little to him—and if more lives could be saved by caving to Britannia, Kiritsugu would prefer Japan surrendered on the spot. But he knew things rarely worked that way. Sure enough, Raiga broke into a rueful laugh.

"…is what I would say if I believed it for a moment. But even if we know it's the truth, it's impossible for us to accept it. We Japanese are too prideful for that. We'll fight back. Eventually we might win. My job is to make sure that one day we do so. No matter what we have to do now."

Kiritsugu said nothing. He could say nothing, for only a few hours ago he had been guilty of the same crime.

Sometimes knowing justice was not the same as following it—

Kiritsugu froze. Despite the clear traces of a battle, the lack of bodies was suspicious. The main road thus far had remained suspiciously clear of debris, despite all the destroyed buildings in the vicinity. As if they were expected to go down this road—

Holding up a hand in front of Raiga, Kiritsugu pointed at his gun.

"Stop the car," Raiga murmured. Nodding, the driver whispered something into his headset as he removed a handgun from the glove compartment.

Leaning towards the tinted windows, Raiga glanced at Kiritsugu, his usual lively vigor replaced by deathly calm.

"The Russians again?"

"Someone else," Kiritsugu replied with conviction. The Russians who had fought with Raiga at Vladivostok could not be responsible, as Kiritsugu had been responsible for killing all of them. Not that anyone knew.

"I'll check," Kiritsugu whispered as he quietly unlocked the door.

For one, if this ambushing party was hostile, Kiritsugu was the most likely to be capable of surviving it. Moreover, if the situation became too dangerous, it would make more sense to flee the scene. Being trapped in a car was the worst place to be in a firefight. It was just enough metal to be insufficient to defend against bullets and yet too much to be able to throw aside easily when things went bad.

Kiritsugu closed his eyes.

"_Time Alter—double Accel,"_ he muttered to himself as, instantly, the world around him seemed to dim, and the last remnants of Raiga's words of caution slowed to an incomprehensible drawl of sound.

With speed that probably shocked Raiga, Kiritsugu pushed the door open with all his might, the sudden application of force causing the door to groan in protest as he rolled out.

The impact, combined with the stress of double accel hit Kiritsugu like a sledgehammer. Ignoring the insistent pain in his chest, Kiritsugu stood up, taking a quick analysis of his surroundings.

—Raiga's young bodyguard Yohane switching off the safety of his handgun as he pushed the children back—

—A roadblock ahead of them, ready to be rolled to stop the convoy—

—A dark-skinned man in the one of the cars talking into a phone, his eyes wide behind his sunglasses—

—A man in a black vest watching from the roofless building, some kind of rifle in his hand—

—A rather well-dressed man who seemed to be making a "stop" motion in the distance—

—And then, with a blast of light, time returned to normal with a blast of pain.

Gritting his teeth through the pain, Kiritsugu let his weapon fall to an at ease position. It seemed like these men—a private military contractor, by appearances, didn't have attentions to kill them, at least not in the immediate present.

With a roar of anger, Yakuza members barreled out of their vehicles, looking around nervously with self-encouraging roars as the JSDF soldiers trained their weapons in a desperate attempt to find a target.

"Don't shoot," Kiritsugu yelled to the panicked Yakuza as Raiga barreled out behind him, his hand holding a shotgun that looked way too large for the diminutive old man.

"You heard him," Raiga yelled as he stood up. "I hope you meant what you said," he muttered quietly to Kiritsugu.

"Not bad," a woman's voice echoed in heavily accented Japanese.

A figure leapt out from the window of a building, landing nearly soundlessly on the ruined road, a paper box of "melon milk" clutched in its hand.

Kiritsugu appraised the figure as it stood up. The figure belonged to a rather well-built, dark-skinned woman. Like the others, she seemed to be dressed in the black vest and pretentious Operator sunglasses that seemed to be the uniform of this particular defense contractor. Her expression radiated a smug kind of confidence.

"Those were some reflexes there," she said with a nod to Kiritsugu. "You looking for some better employment?"

Kiritsugu said nothing—it was better to give as little as possible away.

"Oh, the silent type," the woman replied with a smile. "I don't mind those either—" midsentence, she nodded to Raiga as he stepped out from behind Kiritsugu. "Ah, personal life later. Fujimura Raiga?"

"That would be me," Raiga replied calmly.

"Ah." Rummaging into one of the vest's many pockets, she removed a rather pleasant-looking business card that she offered to Raiga. "Misae Sabe, BlackHills Services LLC. We do personal security, investigations, tracking, that kind of thing. Consider hiring us if you have the opportunity."

"I assume you didn't stop us to ask for a job, Miss Sabe?" Raiga replied in fluent English.

"Just a bit of self-advertising," Misae replied with a cheerful smile. "Every girl is a self-producer, you know."

"I assume the man with the rocket launcher on the rooftop helps with the production," Raiga remarked dryly.

"All pleasantries aside then," Misae said with a chuckle, "Please leave behind the Britannian boy and girl you picked up from that mountaintop pagoda."

"You don't appear to be his parent or legal guardian. Something about the skin tone."

"If you're his parent, he certainly didn't get your eyes."

Kiritsugu sighed. Raiga could be petty when he wanted to be.

"Ms. Sabe, may I ask who your employer is?"

Misae shrugged. "Sorry, can't tell you that."

Raiga chipped in with a trace of anger. "Then may I know why you want these children?"

"It's bad business to give away anything about your client, you know."

"And if we refuse?"

With a loud sucking time, Misae sucked empty her small carton of melon milk. "Then might we interest you in a sales demonstration of the services we offer?"

For all its lighthearted tone, the sound of gun butts touching shoulders suggested that the defense contractor meant what she had said. The dry, scratching sound of swords clearing their sheath suggested that the Fujimura Yakuza were also preparing for the worst.

Raiga smiled a smile that didn't give away vein pulsing in his temple. "How do you know we won't kill the children?"

"I'm interested in watching you try."

Kiritsugu's finger played with the trigger to his handgun. If worst came to worst, he would try to get the children and Raiga out—if he could get all of them out.

If it came to down to it, the children would be easier to rescue than Raiga. If it came to it, he would be saving more people leaving Raiga—

"Misae, stand down!"

Misae and Raiga both turned as a softspoken voice that bore a hint of nervousness cut through the sour-tasting tension in the air.

It was the rather well-dressed man who until then had been watching from the window. Dressed in a rather fancy coat and sporting a row of carefully combed greying brown hair, the man fit the spitting image of an aristocrat.

"Apologies, Raiga-_san,_" he said with a bow and perfect Japanese. "I did not intend for this to become a confrontation."

"I may have reacted in the wrong way as well," Raiga muttered. "Finally, someone who speaks Japanese," he murmured under his breath.

Walking in front of Misae, the old man offered a hand.

"Reuben Ashford."

Raiga's eyebrows jumped a little. "Lord Reuben Ashford? Of House Ashford?"

The man laughed wryly. "Not a Lord anymore. Just an old man with too much money."

"I can relate," Raiga replied. "though I hope you have not become overfond of the children."

"Pedophilia is a crime in every country, Fujimura-_san,_" Ashford responded pleasantly. "I would rather not spend my not very hard-earned money on bribing the authorities—not that it would be a problem if I wanted to do so."

"Ahh. I've managed to keep my head above the legal water line," Raiga noted with a humorless laugh and a pointed glance at the car from which the children watched.

"It becomes harder and harder to do it as you grow older, you know. It wouldn't be in either of our interests that it happen again," Ashford replied, with his own glance at the Britannian children."

Raiga sighed. "…It seems like we both could benefit from some mutual discussion."

"It seems we will stay a while then."

* * *

><p>"I apologize for my rudeness there, Fujimura-<em>San<em>," Reuben Ashford sighed as he watched the cleanup from the rooftop of a (relatively unscathed) office building. "BlackHills has not failed me yet, but I would not trust them with my secrets just yet."

"It's fine. I had JSDF soldiers with me as well," Raiga replied gruffly as he watched a Yakuza member carry a white, limp sack towards a fenced-off area near the edge of the highway. The bag fell with a small plume of dust and a thump that seemed a little louder than it should be.

"It's better than leaving them out there to rot," Ashford muttered.

Raiga sighed as he watched a PMC officer drop another white body bag onto the pile. "It's out of both of our hands not, isn't it?"

Ashford smiled a tired, bitter smile. "An Oyabun sidelined by the Prime Minister and a former noble whose benefactors are political hostages—two useless old men."

"Two RICH useless old men," Raiga corrected him.

Ashford laughed. "I stand corrected."

"Onto business, then. I suppose you want the Prince and Princess?"

Ashford nodded with a bow. "I'd like to thank you for taking good care of them in Japan."

"'Good' may be an overstatement," Raiga sighed, "we only protected them to ensure the protection of our hostage in Britannia."

"And it was the same for us," Ashford replied as he watched Lelouch Lamperouge and Suzaku Kururugi where they stood watching the slow procession of the pallbearers, "but it seems like the children have gotten used to their lives here."

"…My granddaughter will be a little disappointed to watch the children go."

Ashford blinked as he stared at the wrinkly old man. He had seen the tall girl who had been trying to protect the children, but nothing would have suggested to him that she was the descendant of this raisin of a man. "That girl is your granddaughter?"

"Taiga is the only thing I'm proud of," Raiga replied with a toothless grin.

"You should be," Ashford replied. "I hope my granddaughter will grow up to be like her."

"If this war ends, they may have a chance to meet."

"I will make sure it happens. After all, both of us have a lot to gain from working together."

Raiga smiled as he watched Lelouch and Suzaku below.

"I remember back when I was that age."

"It was a long time ago," Ashford said with a laugh. "I can hardly remember it."

Ashford turned back to the soon-to-be funeral pyre below, now bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. "I will guarantee the safety of Princess Kikyo Sumeragi and protect anyone you need protected."

"And in return I will return you Nunnally and Lelouch Lamperouge," Fujimura Raiga confirmed.

Ashford smiled as he extended his hands. "It's settled, then. Let us work together to end this war as quickly as possible."

Clasping Ashford's hand, Raiga nodded solemnly. "Of course—for the safety of both our granddaughters."

* * *

><p>With a roar and a burst of heat, the funeral pyre burst into flame as the JSDF officer who had lit the flame saluted silently.<p>

Suzaku Kururgi averted his eyes silently. He had seen the PMC, JSDF and Yakuza members drop bags of every size, from bags quite a bit larger than him to bags smaller than he was.

And all because the governments of two countries could not agree.

And, as the son of the head of the Japanese government, Suzaku Kururugi could not help but feel that he and his father were responsible for those body bags now shriveling under the kerosene-powered fire.

"I…"

Suzaku said nothing as he heard Lelouch's voice. That voice held a bitterness that he had never quite heard before—the bitterness of someone who knew exactly how powerless he was.

For some reason, it drove that shard of guilt deeper into Suzaku's chest.

Lelouch Lamperouge was a political prisoner who had been traded off to Japan, a prisoner. His powerlessness was a given.

But unlike Lelouch, Suzaku was the son of the Prime Minister, Genbu Kururugi. If only he had done something—

"Suzaku…"

Suzaku looked up as Lelouch spoke again—this time not simply with bitterness, but something else. Anger, almost rage.

"I'm going to destroy Britannia!"

* * *

><p>"…Was it alright not telling them?" Misae asked, a box of Soda milk in her hands.<p>

"I'm fulfilling my promise, Kikyo Sumeragi and her daughter will remain safe." Reuben Ashford replied. "What they don't know won't hurt them."

"From my experiences, it generally hurts after you say that," Misae remarked. "So we going back to the Rangers? I'm not sure they've forgiven you for last time."

"We're heading to the Landing Zone. We're taking the first transport to Hong Kong or Manila. Our job in this is done."

Misae shrugged as she clambered into the shotgun seat of several converted pickups. "As you wish."

Opening the door of his own vehicle, a SUV that seemed rather large for the other vehicles on the road, Ashford clambered in. Eyeing him suspiciously was the older of the two children he had travelled to Japan to protect—Lelouch Vi Britannia, Eleventh Heir to the Britannian Throne.

"Your highnesses," Ashford said with a curt bow.

The boy did not seem mollified. "Who are you, and why do you refer to us as loyalty?" It seemed like a year as a political hostage had hardened this child from the bright child Ashford had seen from a distance in the past.

"You need not worry," Ashford replied with a warm smile as he settled into the front seat, "I used to work for your mother." Technically that was only true after she had become Emperor, but Ashford chose not to point that out.

"Where are you taking us?"

"To the Ashford Foundation," Ashford replied. "I have a granddaughter back at home. I'm sure Milly will be happy to have a friend or two."

* * *

><p><strong>Saturday, February 6th, 2010 A.T.B., 2349 Hours Tokyo Time<strong>

**Shinto District, Fuyuki City**

"Attention Citizens of Fuyuki City, this is the JGSDF 15th Infantry Division. Martial law has been declared, and a curfew is currently in place from 10 pm to 6 am. I repeat, a curfew will remain in place from 10 pm Tokyo time to 6 am. Please remain in your homes for the duration of the curfew."

Under the street lights, a group of JSDF Soldiers escorted a Komatsu IFV through the (already largely-empty) streets. After all, war had been declared, even if it had not touched the quiet town of Fuyuki.

Kirei Kotomine watched, his face blank, from the top of the Center Building, the tallest structure in Fuyuki.

From the point of view of a Church member, the curfew was useful—it would help to limit the rampant casualties that had been seen in grail wars in the past—and it was fairly relaxing.

With the streets largely empty, Fuyuki lay refreshingly silent under the cloudless night—almost as if a battle was not happening at that very moment.

* * *

><p><em>Huff huff—<em>

With all his strength, the White-masked man threw himself to the side with all his strength.

With a metallic whine a spear screamed past the space he had occupied a millisecond before.

And then a roar as, with the force of an artillery shell, the spear impacted the dirt, sending the masked man flying in a burst of shattered cobblestone and dirt.

* * *

><p>Kirei shivered slightly. The unusually warm day had given way to the usual February chill at night, and the weather reports predicted that the weather would return to subzero temperatures by the next morning.<p>

In the distance, Kirei could see the distant lights of the residential homes. Divided by a river, the City of Fuyuki was divided into two sections—the growing economic center in the Shinto district and the residential district of Miyama. From here, the various houses and streetlights of Miyama looked like a patchwork of tiny yellow stars.

From here, Kirei could make out the splotch of yellow lights of the Foreigner's district, seemingly wrapped in the same tranquil silence that covered the rest of the town from this altitude.

* * *

><p>"— —"<p>

With the dexterity of a spider or a particularly rabid squirrel, the masked man landed on all fours, twisting to avoid an axe that buried itself where his head would have been.

With a hiss, a Chinese _Dao_ slammed into the ground near him incinerating the little petunia bush that stood in its way instantly.

And then, abruptly, the rain of destruction stopped as, finally, the masked man looked up to face his assailant.

"My compliments to you. You may be an insect, but you are tenacious insect."

The haughty tone certainly fit the speaker.

Golden Armor, golden hair, and an aura that seemed to itself shine gold—the man who stood among the innumerable cloud of armaments, Servant Archer, seemed to glow like a second sun in the night.

"But you are starting to bore me, and your strength is flagging."

Servant Assassin said nothing. Archer was right. He would not be able to dodge the man's seemingly endless supply of weapons.

If he could get through those weapons, he would have a clear shot at his enemy.

The smile on Archer's face was not cruel. Nor was it pitying or even hostile. It was the smile of a god looking down at a termite.

"You know, Mongrel, a moth blazes brightest after it has flown into the flame. Would you not rather perish in a blaze of glory—however petty—than be slowly chased into a corner and squashed like a bug?"

Under his mask, Assassin smiled.

It seemed as if the enemy Servant had let down his guard.

His master knew a secret that the enemy servant didn't know had been compromised.

After all, Assassin thought to himself, the man who summoned Servant Assassin surely shared some of the duplicity of the legendary Hashashin.

Archer's master had been a fool for entrusting this information to his master—and it would come back to bite him now.

Within his mind, Assassin ran through the plan through his head once more as he crouched.

Servant Archer raised his hand as several swords, spears and warhammers primed themselves.

Assassin would only get a tiny window of opportunity. But it was enough. After all, he was one of the Hashashin—and the Hashashin didn't need second chances.

With an oddly loud crack, Archer snapped his fingers as the weapons behind leapt to life—and as Assassin burst into action.

With a reflexes that seemed to defy human capabilities, Assassin leapt onto the hilt of the _Dao_ that had buried itself near him, and then to a taller Longsword, and then some kind of polehammer, each step bringing him closer and closer to Archer.

And then, a Chakram whizzing under him, he was clear, a projectile shooting towards his enemy.

"_Shah e mardan,_

_Sheir e Yazdan, _

_Quwat e Parwar digar, _

_La Fatta illa Ali,_

_La Saif illa Zulfiqar_,"

Assassin muttered with a voice as deep and parched as the cliffs of Alamut themselves.

Archer's smile widened as he personally pulled a sword and prepared to throw it.

Under his mask, Assassin smiled. This was his chance.

With a burst of dirty linen, the blackened bandages that covered his left arm burst away as his hands tightened on a hilt hidden within.

"_Sword that Shatters Heresy – Zabaniya Zulfiqar_!"

As Archer hurled his sword, Assassin swung with his own, a bifurcated scimitar that shined with a glow that rivaled that of Archer's armor. With a deep, bone-chilling clang, the two swords connected—and then, with a supersonic whine that resembled a scream, both swords shattered in a blast of ejected prana. As Assassin charged through the blast, a second blade extended from his arm as he closed in for the kill—

* * *

><p>Kirei shivered slightly as a gust wind cut through his coat with little difficulty.<p>

The weatherman had predicted that it might snow sometime during this week.

* * *

><p>"—!"<p>

With a silent cry of pain and shock, Assassin slammed back into the dirt, a spear pinning him to the ground through his shoulder.

"…how dare you."

Assassin looked up in shock at Archer. His expression was no longer that of passive condescension, but of anger, of disgust.

"How dare you defile one of a King's treasures?"

Silently, Assassin writhed as he scrabbled against the spear that transfixed him upon the ground.

He needed to get out—to tell his master that his intel was incorrect.

All those armaments that hung behind Archer were not the manifestation of one noble phantasm, as his master believed. If they had, all would have shattered the moment he unleashed Zabaniya Zulfiqar.

Unbelievably, amazingly, each and every one of those weapons was own Noble Phantasm in its own right.

Archer raised his hand once again, as a new barrage of weapons primed themselves.

Assassin desperately yanked against the spear in his shoulder. If he could get out, he had a chance, a chance to warn his master that his act of subterfuge had magus—

And then he froze.

It had only been there for a second.

But he had seen it far too many times not to recognize it.

A white mask, forever bound in a skulllike smile.

The same mask he wore.

And, at that moment, Assassin realized that he didn't have to tell his master anything.

He understood why his master had sent him, what role he had to play.

Assassin loosened his grip on the spear that dug into his shoulder.

Truly, his master was an Assassin in his own right. With such a crafty scheme, Assassin knew that his master would be the one who would win the Holy Grail.

It was a pity, Assassin reflected as the rain of swords came down, that he would not be alive to see it.

* * *

><p>With a rustle of ragged cloth, a white-mask form landed next to Kirei, her head inclined in a respectful bow.<p>

"It has been done, my master," she murmured.

"Good," Kirei said simply.

It was, after all, necessary. The fact that Tohsaka Tokiomi had taught Kirei Kotomine as an apprentice only days before the war was, while not unusual in the world of magus, certainly more than enough for the other masters to take notice.

Indeed, it would bring unwanted attention both to Kirei and his servant—hardly what the master of Assassin, the servant most in tune with anonymity and the shadows, needed.

Now, under the protection of the Church as a defeated master, Kirei would have far greater freedom movement, under the eye of the other servants.

"Is this alright?" Kirei mused aloud.

"Rest Assured," the female Assassin as she stood up. "He was the first, but he won't be the only one. Look."

Following the Assassin's hand, Kirei focused on the JSDF soldiers escorting the IFV—or rather, the soldier who had been doing so. Now they lay scattered across the ground.

Slowly, as if waking up from a dream, they stood up, picking up their weapons—and as one, they turned upwards towards Kirei Kotomine.

Kirei had been trained to be emotionless, but he could not stop his eyes from widening slightly as he looked down.

On all their faces was the white masks of the Hashashin.

"Assassins may die, but Assassin will not."

Kirei could not see behind the white mask, but he suspected he heard pride as the Assassin spoke.

* * *

><p><strong>Noble Phantasm<strong>: Zabaniya Zulfiqar

**Title**: Sword that Shatters Heresy

**Owner**: Assassin

**Type**: Anti-Unit

**Rank**: C+++

**Range**: 0-10 m

**Maximum number of targets**: 1 people

Dsecription: A type of Sword Breaker based on Zulfiqar, the sword used by Alī ibn Abī Ṭālib. A sword given by the Archangel Gabriel to Ali when his strength shattered all other swords he wielded. A two-ended scimitar that, in its original form (Rank A+), would shatter any noble phantasm below rank A and lower the stats of all noble phantasms above by one stat. However, Assassin's version is a lesser iteration, a copy of the version that is famous in Islamic mythology. In its altered form, used by Assassin, it functions similarly, but will shatter in the process. Meant to be used on an enemy servant's trump card to allow Assassin to make the best use of his close combat/assassination abilities.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Notes<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>[1]Primroses<strong> – Yes, I know in the anime they are sunflowers, but sunflowers don't bloom in winter, and the Holy Grail War has traditionally taken place in winter, so I had to make do with a winter flowering plant.

**[2] Yukata** – a lighter version of a kimono, commonly for more casual use and for the summer. She wore it in Episode one for reasons I don't really know in canon. It was, after all, summer in Code Geass Canon?

**[3] Tsundere** – a term used to refer to anime characters (generally female) who initially may act disgusted or hostile towards a love interest. They may not be capable of adequately expressing those feelings once they have developed and may attempt to hide it with their previous hostility (usually without success). Characters that exhibit this in this universe would be Tohsaka Rin and (depending on the power of your homo goggles) Waver Velvet in relation to Rider.

**[4] Reading Glasse**s – a personal preference on my part. I think Kiritsugu'd look good in glasses. His dad did.

**[5] A Chinese Proverb:** "One mountain cannot hold two tigers," bearing a similar meaning to "there cannot be two suns in the sky"

**[5.5]** Hong Xiuqian – Founder of the Taiping movement, a scholar who failed the Chinese Civil Service Exams and, after a nervous breakdown, awoken convinced he was Jesus' younger brother. The movement he bred would kill more people than World War I around the same time as the American Civil War, which is quite an achievement (but not so much in light that it IS china)

**[6] 1st World, 2nd World and 3rd World**: these terms used to denote the three sides in the Cold War Era: NATO and its affiliates as the 1st World, the Warsaw Pact as the 2nd World, and the Unaffiliated nations (India, Egypt, etc.) as the 3rd World. This is a simplification (i.e. France did not hold itself as part of NATO, Red China and the Warsaw Pact did not consider themselves friends, etc). Nowadays "third world" is just a term used to vaguely refer to developing or unindustrialized nations.


	17. Chapter 7 - I'll think of a name later

**Chapter 7 - Well, it's been a while due to a bunch of things, but I have actually still been working on this on-and-off, and since HeavyValor has started writing again I suppose I ought to start up again as well.**

* * *

><p><strong>Sunday, February 7th, 2010<strong>

Maiya Hisau was already at the airfield when the plane landed, her trim uniform nondescript among the various attaches, butlers, and chauffeurs that awaited their charges.

"Madame," she said in the way of greeting as Irisviel and Saber stepped through the crowd of diplomats, her face empty as marble. As their gazes crossed, Saber nodded curtly, to which Maiya replied in kind.

Though the way Maiya carried herself had nothing in common with the rigid salutes of the EU and JSDF soldiers around them, Saber recognized the watchful eye of a career soldier.

Her eyes bore the same hardness as those seen in the eyes of her master, Emiya Kiritsugu—and though she carried herself a little more lithely, a little more gracefully than Kiritsugu, Saber could also tell that they were cut from the same mold.

Maybe all soldiers of this day and age were like this, Saber thought to herself.

She felt a little reassured—if it came down to a fight, she knew that she could count on the dark-haired woman to fight alongside her.

Whether they would get along was another matter altogether.

Irisviel, as Saber had expected, noticed none of this as she cheerfully bounded up to Maiya gracefully. It was a different type of grace—not the agile, loping grace of some kind of a leopard that Maiya possessed, but the bounding of a rabbit blissfully unaware of its surroundings.

"Maiya, right? It's so good to see you," she said happily as if they had been friends for years.

"Madame," Maiya responded neutrally.

"None of that 'Milady' business, I get that from Saber enough as it is—is that a Cadillac CTS-V?" Irisviel exclaimed with a tone of wonder as she approached the car Maiya had been using.

"I was told by Kiritsugu that you liked this car," Maiya responded as she pulled open the door.

"I do, I do," Irisviel gushed, her eyes almost glowing.

Saber eyed the vehicle appreciatively. She had expected some kind of car more analogous to a warhorse from Kiritsugu, but it seemed the man had his own taste as well.

The car was certainly not battleworthy, but something about the hum of its engine suggested it was powerful in its own right—not an armored destrier for sure, but a palfrey[1], bred for speed and grace.

Irisviel happily opened the rightside door. "I've always wanted to drive—"

Her voice trailed off as her hands scrabbled over thin air where the steering wheel would have been.

"Britannian Cars have steering wheels on the left, milady," Maiya said smoothly as she buckled her seatbelt on the Driver's side.

The drive to Fuyuki proved quite a bit slower than the Francophone GPS had suggested, owing to both Irisviel's pouting over the revelation that Kiritsugu had forbidden her from driving and Maiya's unexpectedly safe driving.

"You have no sense of excitement," Irisviel grumbled as Maiya carefully parked the car, seemingly oblivious to the truck driver who had taken to honking as Maiya meticulously struggled with parallel park for two minutes.

The cars and trucks were almost comically small, almost like dinky toys next to Irisviel's Cadillac—probably the reason nobody had tried to cut them off. Saber's glare and the EU Diplomat's license plate had also served to deter the JSDF soldiers that had thought to approach the clearly foreign-looking group as they parked in the busy marketplace.

Maiya coughed quietly as Irisviel looked around excitedly. "Madame, according to the plan, we must head to the castle presently and drop off your luggage."

"It can wait, can't it, Maiya?"

"It cannot…"

Maiya's voice trailed off as she saw Irisviel's crestfallen face. To her credit, she resisted for almost a minute before she turned away.

Relenting, she sighed. "…I will head to the castle with the luggage and rendezvous with Kiritsugu then. Keep the madam protected," she said to Saber.

Saber's silent nod and Irisviel's expression of seemed to be satisfy her, as she returned to the sedan. "I will return to retrieve you after I update Kiritsugu on the situation. Contact me if anything goes wrong."

And with that, the Cadillac roared off, meticulously stopping for pedestrians and small animals as it went.

* * *

><p>Irisviel stretched as she took in the two or three-story stores and buildings of what the map from the Fuyuki Town Hall ("Opening March 2010!") had denoted as Miyama, the residential district of the city.<p>

"There are so many people here," she exclaimed with a happiness several years her junior. Saber smiled awkwardly—it was easy to forget that this fully-grown woman had spent her whole life within that faraway frozen castle.

At the same time, she could sympathize—what her master had offhandedly referred to a backwater town in the Japanese countryside could well have put capital cities of her time to shame. Across the river, business buildings and the Fuyuki Hyatt stretched towards the overcast sky. She wondered what had become of her Kingdom, thousands of miles away.

The Miyama Shopping District, a long line of stores and homes, felt very much like a castle town, with various townsmen bartering, buying and selling foods, toys, tools, and various other trinkets that Saber could not pretend to know anything about. It seemed like the locals were bright and friendly, happily engaging in conversation and even handing out a few samples of their goods to Irisviel as she sauntered along. For a people at war they seemed awfully unconcerned.

Rather, Saber realized, it was not that the environment around Irisvel was bright—rather, it was that Irisviel was brightening the environment and people around her. As she passed by, somber old men and worried soldiers seem to brighten up and smile.

This beautiful, cheerful, easily-amused lady reminded them of happier times, allowed them to forget, for even a moment, of the war that was going on a few miles away.

Saber smiled in spite of herself. Maybe it was affecting her a little as well. After all, there was still time before nightfall.

—and then she felt something just brush her, something that caused her blood to instantly run cold. "Irisviel," she muttered as she tensed herself.

"I felt it too," Irisviel whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

Though the street was filled with men, women and children, Saber could immediately make out the source of that feeling.

It was a man, bespectacled, long-haired and bearded like a particularly unshaven and oriental Gordon Freeman. Though his expression and gaze showed no killing intent, Saber's instinct told her this man was all the more dangerous because of it.

"A master?"

"…A servant," Saber responded grimly.

With a single, deliberate step that Saber managed to hear among a hundred other footsteps, the man took a step towards them through the crowd.

Saber's glare of warning seemed to be lost on the man.

Silently, Saber crouched. She didn't want to cut through this crowd, but if she had to, she could blow them all out of the way with a gust of Invisible Air.

And then, with a flutter of his rather old-looking coat, the other servant walked past without another word.

Saber watched the man walk away warily, ready for any sudden movements—but he presently disappeared in the crowd.

Irisviel watched Saber worriedly. "Are you sure he was a servant?"

Saber bit her lip.

That servant had conveyed a warning, intended or not.

Irisviel's cheeriness had caused Saber to forget for a moment the circumstances of her summoning.

The summoning of the servants had been several days ago.

A less charitable servant could have attacked them then and there.

The Holy Grail War, after all, had already started.

"No doubt about it," Saber replied quietly. "We should contact Maiya."

* * *

><p>It took the 18 speed function on the replay program for Emiya Kiritsugu to appreciate exactly how fast that battle between servant Assassin and Archer had been. Even at 1/8 speed, servant Assassin's location skipped frames as he avoided the noble phantasms that materialized simply as beams of light before impact.

And then, springing from one of the buried weapon, Assassin revealed his own noble phantasm as, with the shrill scream of a vacuum tearing open, he cut through one of those beam of light—before being smashed into the ground. The rest Kiritsugu had seen already, at multiple speeds and multiple filters.

Kneading his forehead with his palms, Kiritsugu switched filters with a click, the incident instantly rerendering in infared.

Everything seemed consistent with a battle between servants.

A servant had most certainly died at the Tohsaka Residence. And, a few hours, Risei Kotomine, the Representative of the Church, had announced the disqualification and withdrawal of his son Kirei from the war.

Kirei Kotomine, as a defeated master, would now be sequestered within the Kotomine church for the duration of the Holy Grail War, presumably to avoid the vengeance of his tutor, Tohsaka Tokiomi.

Yet, the feeling that kept eating at Kiritsugu was definitely unease.

The obvious familial relation between Risei and his son aside, Kirei had been defeated far too easily.

In fact, too much about the war was already worrying him.

A Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi that had not been Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi, but a child whose brains should still be decorating the side of a Britannian jet; the complete lack of information regarding the Matou candidate; and now, the enemy who Kiritsugu had dreaded facing was now defeated.

Supposedly, two of the six servant-master pairs Kiritsugu would have to face were now defeated.

He wondered if each master who had fought the wars before had felt the same.

"Is everything ready?" he said without turning.

Maiya did not show any surprise as she walked in soundlessly—she and Kiritsugu knew each other too well for that. "I've dropped off the madame's supplies at the mansion."

"And Iri?" Though he had used that pet name for seven years now, this was the first time it had sounded so unnatural rolling off his tongue.

In this undecorated office space, surrounded by the weapons of war, it just sounded wrong, a honky accordion in a punk rock concert.

If Maiya noticed Kiritsugu's discomfort, she did not mention it. "The Madame will engage the enemy servant as planned."

"Then it's time we head out as well." With a huff, Kiritsugu shouldered his rifle case—and stopped.

"…is something wrong?" Maiya finally said as Kiritsugu dithered.

"…huh," Kiritsugu chuckled without any real mirth, "I don't quite know why."

But he knew why.

It was just like that morning in Long Island Sound with Stinger in hand, wondering whether there was any other way in which he wouldn't have to pull the trigger.

There was a possibility. He could throw it all away—all the ideals, dreams and goals he had fought for, if he took a plane right back to Germany, he could do it. The Einzberns were not warriors, and for a professional killer like Emiya Kiritsugu those ancient barriers that protected the Einzbern Castle had long since been obsolete. He could save Ilya and Iri and run from it all.

And yet simultaneously he knew, just as he knew on that day, that he couldn't do it. On that day, he had pulled the trigger.

But here, today, he couldn't even take the first step.

Iri and Ilya had changed him far too much.

It couldn't be helped, then. He would call Irisviel now. Surely she would approve—and even if she didn't he would make her. It was for her, and for Ily—

"—!"

It wasn't the same as Iri's—it tasted different, felt different. Maiya Hisau was a professional, quick and efficient in all she did. Kiritsugu had trained her in that way.

Maiya's expression was as solemn as Kiritsugu had trained her to be as she separated from him and stared straight into him with those cold eyes.

"Focus. Remember why you came here, Emiya Kiritsugu."

Those cruel words, that gaze washed over Kiritsugu like a bucket of frigid water. The pain went nowhere—but now it was just a throbbing pain, numbed by the cold.

_That's right._ This was the orphan girl that Emiya Kiritsugu had picked up off some distant battlefield. This was the woman he had trained to assist him, fight for him, support him when everything went wrong. This was the woman who was meant to remind him of where he had come from, why he fought, and what he had done to make it happen.

After depriving so many families of those they loved, he would stand against everything he ever lived for if he turned back today.

If Maiya caught any of this, she said nothing. "Are you ready, Kiritsugu?"

Kiritsugu nodded as he stepped through the door. "…yes. Thank you, Maiya."

"Good."

As she turned to go, something almost flashed across Maiya Hisau's face— something Emiya Kiritsugu had not seen on her face for many, many years.

* * *

><p>In the past, the small sleepy town of Fuyuki had been a quiet, reasonably prosperous but thoroughly ordinary fishing village situated just close enough to the Old Capital and the New Capital to be considered noteworthy but too far from either to be considered worth financial investment. The town's only real curiosity had been a small population of European émigré and intellectuals that had settled since the opening of Japan, producing a variety of impressionist artwork and existential literature collectively distinguished by both their obscurity and unprofitability.<p>

The 90's Sakuradite boom, though, and the subsequent acquisition of ailing Vladivostok-based shipping company FedorenCo by the local half-yakuza Fujimura Group had done much to raise the quiet hamlet, first to a minor industrial port and then a thriving business center from which various multinational business representatives could bask in the tranquility of the Japanese countryside from the air conditioned, 20th floor of the Fuyuki Hyatt (or any of a number of cheaper and infinitely shadier hotels cum gambling dens run by the Fujimura Group).

While few freighters docked in Fuyuki's harbors anymore, the more dilapidated parts of the (otherwise quiet scenic) harbors of Fuyuki remained open for clingy couples with a fondness for romantic sunsets, shady dealings and asbestos. It was here that Saber and Irisviel ran into the servant from earlier in the day, looking particularly shady among the old warehouses.

Saber was personally relieved—it seemed the other servant was hoping to keep this battle as far away from the rest of the town as possible.

"I am grateful for your forbearance earlier today," Saber said—not with any particular warmth or hostility, but a muted respect. This was Ser Arturia Pendragon speaking, from a Knight to an equal across the field.

For a moment, it seemed as if the other servant would respond with silence in true Gordon Freeman fashion, but a moment later he spoke.

"_The noble man, when resting in safety, does not forget that danger may come. When in a state of security he does not forget the possibility of ruin. When all is orderly, he does not forget that disorder may come. Thus his person is not endangered, and his States and all their clans are preserved,_" the other servant said, as if by rote, before speaking in a voice that convey equal parts contemplativeness and immovability.

"I would have been the smaller man[2] had I allowed other smaller men to take advantage of your unpreparedness, madame."

"I am grateful nevertheless," Saber replied, the possibility that the bearded man might have exploited Saber's negligence left unpsoken.

The other servant turned to regard Irisviel where she stood behind Saber.

"And this is your lady?"

"Irisviel von Einzbern, of the House of Einzbern," Irisviel replied with a curtsy before Saber could reply. There was no trace of the playfulness from hours earlier in her voice, only a dazzlingly cold beauty worthy of the Saint of Winter. "Is your master not present to observe your battle?"

"Regrettably, my lady would like to offer a word of apology, for she has yet to arrive in time for this battle."

Irisviel nodded loftily, mind racing. From Kiritsugu's information, only one master had been a woman—that girl from the Chinese Federation. This servant, then, was likely Chinese. Hardly Irisviel's area of expertise, but perhaps Kiritsugu would have a clue. "Would it be more reasonable for us to await the arrival of your master," Irisviel inquired with a nod to Rider.

"That would be unnecessary," Saber interjected unexpectedly. With a flourish, she thrust out her hand in front of her, a movement that was accompanied by a flash of light. A moment later, Servant Saber stood, full plate gleaming in the lamplight.

Irisviel blinked. The phrase had been a mere formality, a concession that Irisviel didn't plan to give and the other servant was not intended to take. Saber's alacrity had been unlike her.

The other servant bowed. "I am grateful for your consideration, but I must decline. My lady would favor a quick resolution of hostilities."

"My thoughts exactly," Saber said, falling into a ready stance, invisible sword held in front of her.

Reaching to his side, the other servant grasped the long, bladed polearm with a gauntleted hand. "Before we begin, may I have your name, nameless warrior?"

Saber nodded. "Gladly. I am Artruria Pendragon, Lord of Camelot and King of the Britons and all Britannia, serving as Servant Saber."

"Very well, King Arturia Pendragon," the other servant responded as he raised the tip of his polearm in front of him, "I am Guan Yu, styled Yunchang, the Lord Hanshou (漢壽) and General of the Vanguard of the King of Hanzhong of the Han[3], serving as servant Rider."

* * *

><p>"It's starting."<p>

Waver Velvet turned on the bed that Mackenzie Jr. had once inhabited many layers of dust ago. "Excuse me?"

"The Grail War. It's starting," Caster said in the same tone with which one would note the defeat of a team you didn't know for a sport you didn't like.

Waver bolted upright. "Right now?" His tone bore more than a hint of annoyance—his previous suggestion that they sortie early in the morning had been shot down rather quickly by the tiny King of Israel, who at the time had been busy eating what Glenn Mackenzie had assured Waver (and what they had been told was Waver's friend's younger brother) were Mackenzie Jr.'s favorite snacks.

"Two of them met earlier today, but they haven't begun fighting until now."

"Why didn't you tell me until now?" Waver tried to hide a displeasure he couldn't quite explain. That Caster had managed to keep track of the current situation on his own without hi—her master's intervention proved the servant's skill. And yet it annoyed Waver to no end.

Caster shrugged. "It's cold out. We wouldn't have fought early in the day at any rate."

Waver sat up and flexed his hands. "I'll send a familiar." It was through the eyes of another familiar, one of the many rats that inhabited Fuyuki, that he had witnessed the first casualty of the war, Assassin. Kirei Kotomine's hasty and shameless retreat to the protection of the Church was something he hoped he would never have to imitate, especially not in the face of his former Professor.

"No need for that," Caster said, leaping to her feet from the cushion she had been lounging on, "pack a coat, we're going out."

"I thought it was cold," Waver replied, glancing distastefully at his coat and the blotch of what he hoped wasn't chicken blood on the side. It was an expensive coat.

"It is, but it'd be rude not to greet our new neighbors."

"Given…our circumstances," Waver said carefully, "shouldn't we wait until the other servants have whittled themselves down somewhat?"

"Assassin attempting to do what he did best, while not unexpected of him, was one thing. The other servants will laugh if the King of Kings doesn't show up for the meeting."

Servant Saber paced slowly in a circle, eyes fixed on Servant Rider.

* * *

><p><em>A rider without a mount?<em>

Then again, Saber herself didn't immediately start with Excalibur from the get-go. Most servants, after all, qualified for more than one class. In another situation she could have qualified for Rider herself, or potentially Lancer.

The two servants continued circling each other, both trying to gauge each other's strengths.

Rider's polearm resembled a glaive, with a thick, curved cutting blade ornamentally crafted to resemble the breath of what Saber assumed to be a dragon, with a small protrusion on the back end—a defensive implement, probably meant to catch an enemy weapon. Several metal rings at the end, which jangled ominously, appeared to serve a purely ornamental purpose.

In order to maintain dexterity, the halberd would not be very heavy—making it more of a harassing weapon. If anything, Rider would try to keep his distance.

This fight needed to be over as soon as possible, especially before Rider's master arrived. Something in Saber's gut told her she would not want Kiritsugu to be involved—

"—!"

Saber felt her body move, faster than thought—

The Halberd impacted with Excalibur in a scream of metal distorted by the gusts of invisible air.

Saber felt her arm protest in pain, as if gravity had been tripled—with a sharp pop, a joint dislocated in protest. With a gasp of effort, she threw off the blade of the Halberd and staggered back.

Daunted by the unknown nature of Excalibur, most seasoned enemies would fight cautiously until they had discerned the nature of the holy sword—and yet, Rider had chosen a reckless frontal attack, one without a single hint of hostility or preamble that would have hinted its advent.

And what a strike, Saber thought to herself as she felt the joint—now that she could see carefully, she realized that, underneath the broad robes that he wore over his gauntlets, Rider's arms rippled with the muscle required to heft a halberd almost ten times the weight of anything she had faced[4].

A weaker weapon would have been bent, if not snapped apart, by the force of the blow—only her instincts and the might of Excalibur, forged by the fairies, had saved her from being rent in half.

"A good sword, and a good wielder," Rider remarked with a hint of respect; "truly a heroic spirit." The Green Dragon Crescent Blade (later named the Guan Dao in his name) had killed countless heroes of the late Han from Hua Xiong to Wen Chou, often before they realized they were being attacked[5]. That a girl young enough to be his daughter managed to block that strike was something he did not expect to see.

"Only barely," Saber replied truthly, readjusting her stance as Irisviel hurriedly muttered something under her breath. Saber felt her joint pop with another burst of pain back into place. In front of her, Rider swung the 82-jin (equivalent = ~18 kg or 40 lbs) halberd like a toy, his face empty as a lake—and then he was in front of her, in midswing. The metal hoops on the back of the Guan Dao left a chilling ring behind them as they cut through where Saber had been a moment before she carefully sidestepped. She was not confident she could take another blow of that force.

Moving down the haft of the halberd, Saber moved in to exploit the gap in the strike—and, reacting instantaneously to the whistle, turned her head to the side as, pulled backwards, the spike on the back of the Guan Dao took off a few strands of hair with a metallic ringing. As Saber followed with a close swing, Rider was forced to leap back a distance that almost seemed comical had Invisible Air not rendered Excalibur's dimensions unknown to Rider.

Rider skidded to a stop, his Guan Dao carving a furrow into the concrete like a plow through the earth as the two servants regarded each other once more in the momentary lull.

It was not the weight of the weapon that unnerved Saber—she had faced strong opponents before, and there were few knights that stood below the diminutive King of Knights in stature and might—it was more that something was absent there that had been present in all her other opponents.

Right now, Rider stood with an aura of complete calm.

Even when he struck a blow clearly targeting Saber, he carried the atmosphere of a gardener pruning a bush, not someone striking to bisect his opponent from the waist.

Rather, he conveyed no Killing Intent[6].

Of course, humans did not gain psychic abilities or the sixth sense required to ascertain "murderous intent (殺氣)". But a veteran of a hundred battles such as Saber had long since become capable of distinguishing the various and barely-perceptible physical cues associate with an individual striking with the deliberate intent to kill. To be deprived of it now, against an opponent of this caliber, was debilitating.

Within the mind of the King of Knights there was never the possibility of defeat.

But, holding on with Instinct alone, would it be possible to claim victory?

* * *

><p>Irisviel von Einzbern had never experienced a natural disaster in her life—never stood through a hurricane, watched a forest fire, felt an earthquake—but, watching this battle between legends, she imagined the feeling of mixed awe and fear was the same.<p>

These were humanity's best, Irisviel had known, the crystallization of all of the greatest ideals of humanity.

And yet there was no way that either of these combatants were humans.

For a mere homunculus, merely designed to be the perfect human, it was like standing in the middle of a whirlwind. The concrete fixtures and old shipping containers of the dock provided no obstacle to the two servants, shards of pavement and scraps of metal scattering with each barely-perceptible swing.

Seventy Years Ago, the Holy Grail War had caught the interest of the Soviet Union and Britannia. In those days a few proud Soviet and Britannian commanders had suggested using conventional troops in the grail war.

Officially a series of massive border clashes in the Sakhalin islands had led to massive loss of life and the prospect of war before Britannian and Soviet politicians reached a last-minute accord.

It was only watching these two servants now that Irisviel von Einzbern realized how arrogant those two governments had been to think that this battlefield had any room for normal men, however hardened by war. This was no fight for the average human to involve himself in.

While she watched, Irisviel felt the unease felt by hundreds of defendants over the history of trial by combat, knowing that their life and death were in the hands of their Approver [7].

Given, her Champion happened to King Arthur, and Irisviel was quite sure Saber wouldn't lose—but, without even the three command spells allotted to every master, she could only watch the battle and hope Kiritsugu knew what he was doing.

* * *

><p>Sprawled on top of a warehouse roof, Emiya Kiritsugu monitored the battle through the scope of his rifle. Saber was holding her own against the enemy servant, but Kiritsugu had yet to catch a glimpse of the master.<p>

That in itself was not completely unexpected—an intelligent master would keep himself concealed from people such as Kiritsugu, and there was always Servant Assassin.

But Kiritsugu could not detect anybody, even with the thermal filter. The Average Magus wouldn't even bother with concealing his body heat, content with simply shrouding his appearance and prana leakage. But to be absent completely? Servants, like most heroic spirits, varied heavily—some were wise or cunning tricksters, and some were calm and collected—but many were also foolhardy, prideful, willful, and plain stupid. A master would be exceptionally confident, or similarly stupid, to give their servant free rein. Kiritsugu would certainly not have given Saber that liberty.

This battle was not necessarily a wasted effort, though. A corpse would attract carrion, and, with such an obvious battle, the other masters and servants would be drawn out—to eliminate the weakened victor, or simply to gauge their future opponents. The other masters and servants would likely arrive soon.

The thought had only just crossed his mind when Maiya's voice spoke crisply into his ear.

"Contact, perimeter." From another point overwatching the battlefield, Maiya had a better view of the surroundings and served as Kiritsugu's spotter.

"Servant? Master?"

"JSDF."

Kiritsugu frowned.

"JSDF?"

"JSDF. Four of them."

"Keep observing the battle," Kiritsugu ordered as he turned around, wondering if Maiya had a sense of humor.

That was strange, though. Through the influence of the Church, several JSDF officers should already be guarding the perimeter under the impression that Asbestos had been discovered in the vicinity. It wasn't even a lie. Why would the JSDF arrive now?

* * *

><p>Leaping the gap between two warehouses silently, Kiritsugu chanced a quick look over the next roof, to where the JSDF cordon had been. A Komatsu IFV was now parked in front of the roadblock, next to the Toyota Military SUV that had carried over the JSDF officers.<p>

The soldiers themselves, though, were nowhere to be found.

Annoyed, Kiritsugu raised the scope of his rifle, still on thermal. Nothing.

Kiritsugu's eyes flickered to the edge of the pier, where the river Mion lapped against the concrete—

Kiritusugu stood up with newfound urgency as he picked up his rifle.

In a few days, Kiritsugu suspected that postmortem chemical reactions would cause a few bodies to surface downriver.

"Maiya, keep an eye on Irisviel!"

* * *

><p>With the practiced hand of somebody who had practiced this for years, Servant Assassin pressed the stock of the Type 89 against his shoulder as he flicked the safety into full automatic.<p>

Hassan-I Sabbah had, of course, never handled an Assault Rifle.

But JSDF Private Yashio Ogure had, and if that was what Servant Assassin had to know to become the unfortunate Private, it would have to do.

From nearby, he knew his cohort, JSDF Corporal Kei was also ready with his own weapon.

The orders from their master had simply been to observe—but here, in front of him, was an enemy servant, the master of Saber, considered the strongest of the servants.

He was servant assassin, after all.

If they could remove one of the enemy masters while Saber was engaged with Rider, would it not provide only benefit to his master?

* * *

><p>"Milady!"<p>

Irisviel, Saber and Rider all looked up in surprise as Maiya stood up from her position, rifle in hand.

Irisviel and Saber had known Maiya was probably there—but to make her position known?

Maiya's attention, though, was fully directed to attempting to lead the three soldiers rushed at Irisviel with a speed that seemed inhuman, rifles raised.

Snapping the crosshair to the lead soldier, Maiya had barely enough time to recognize him as one of the JSDF soldiers that had arrived earlier before her fingers lightly depressed the trigger.

With a loud, "silenced" cough, the soldier pitched backwards, the impact of the shot knocking off his feet, the assault rifle spraying a few tracers harmlessly into the air as the soldier's fingers obeyed the orders of a brain that was no longer quite there.

Almost instantaneously, Saber was upon another one, the man's arms separating from his shoulders in a golden arc of reflected lamplight as, to Maiya's surprise, Rider moved into action, his halberd cleaving through helmet, jacket and into the concrete with a burst of debris.

Even as the bodies crumpled without a sound Maiya was scanning the scene. There had been four that had arrived in the IFV.

The flash of moonlight on a scope, the movement of a barrel—Maiya swung her scope by reflex towards the soldier who stood in the alley, even as she saw the smile breaking out on the lips of the soldier, already aware that he had succeeded as his fingers tightened on the trigger.

And then, in a muffled roar he became a balloon of brown, scaled flesh.

With split-second trigger discipline, Maiya's fingers snapped off the trigger as she stared at the balloon.

No, that was not right. In those split seconds, the balloon of brown-scaled flesh had slammed the soldier into the wall, having emanated from—Maiya blinked. _What was that?_

* * *

><p>"Thank you, Leila."<p>

Waver gulped as, with what sounded like a hiss, the sand-colored claw retracted, leaving behind an indent in the wall, a splatter of flesh and a half-bent rifle that clattered onto the ground with a clunk. Waver's eyes followed the claw as it shrunk and withdrew into the folds of the woman in the _niqab_, her figure clearly voluptuous in spite of the hijab's valiant attempt to hide it.

"Y-yes, your highness," the woman said with what appeared to be embarrassment, her claw (now a completely normal and feminine hand) disappearing into the rippling dark cloth before the woman herself seemingly faded away.

"I wouldn't recommend staring at a Succubus too long," Caster remarked offhandedly from the corner of her mouth, "she wears that for a reason."

Waver felt too sick to retort. "I think I'm going to vomit," he moaned as the pleasant smell of a new book, lavender and the smell of the Clock Tower Library was replaced by the smell of fresh meat, feces and the sweet smell of blood.

"That would be a bad way to introduce yourself. Do you want Leila to escort you to the river?"

Looking at the crater in the warehouse wall again, Waver decided to suck it up.

Caster, meanwhile, had already walked onto the battle, carefully sidestepping the detached arm of the second soldier.

"My apologies for interrupting your battle, Saber and Lancer—"

"—Rider," Rider interrupted.

"Ah, yes, Rider," Caster continued with an unfazed nod, "but it would be a greater shame if your epic battle were to be interrupted by a foolhardy decision," he—(she, Waver corrected himself) said with a disinterested air, as if to nobody in particular. Saber and Rider, too, seemed perplexed. Caster did not seem to notice this, though, as she turned her eyes towards the silver-haired woman who stood behind Saber.

"You are Saber's Master?"

"Irisviel von Einzbern," she replied with a graceful curtsy. Waver couldn't help but stare. Lord Archibald El-Melloi had been a handsome man, in a proud way, and that unhappy flame-haired woman who often showed up at the lab (and whom always left El-Melloi in glowing spirits) had aroused quite a few whispers (and other organs) among the students at Clock Tower. But this woman—there was a dazzling, almost inhuman beauty about her. It wasn't something that you said, but Waver's thoughts were his own, and even under the flawless white coat, those proportions…

"You've got some huge knockers there," Caster remarked, "did your creator design you with those?"

Waver Velvet wanted to cry.

Servant Saber looked as if something within her had prolapsed.

Even Rider, whose face had been largely emotionless thus far, flinched visibly.

Irisviel was the first to regain her composure. "It was part of my template," she managed with a somewhat uncomfortable smile.

Caster, as always, didn't' seem to have noticed the impact of her comment as she continued, her eyes visibly running over the unfortunate Master. "Inducing Pluripotency from Magic Circuit components and then modifying the embryo in vitro, huh? That…I never thought about that."

"Y…yes?" Irisviel replied, still gamely trying to take Caster's comments in stride.

"Well you see, back in my day we tried to induce development of magic circuits from the embryo. Developing an embryo from Magic Circuit components…I'm surprised we never thought of that. Did Alchemy sure has advanced! But those jugs are just unnecessary for a non-reproducing…wait, unless you fit the magic circuits in ther—"

The blast of wind swept over Waver before he could react.

"Continue Slandering my Milady's honor, and I'll kill you right here," Saber snarled as the dust cleared, the gusts that surrounded her invisible sword throwing Caster's (rather long) hair around from somewhere near Caster's neck.

"I feel like we have started this encounter on the wrong foot," Caster said, slowly, after a brief pause.

"Saber," Irisviel said with a cautionary voice. Waver and Rider had also noticed the faintly glowing pattern that radiated from Caster's feet.

Saber stepped back with an expression of reluctance. She didn't sheath her sword—though Waver realized, a moment later, that there was no scabbard at her side.

Caster smiled as she inclined her head slightly to Irisviel. "That's better! Thank you, Milady."

"Irisviel is fine," Irisviel responded with astonishing dignity for somebody who had just been harassed as she had been.

Caster grinned. "It would be rude to be on first-name terms with one as beautiful as yourself, milady."

Saber twitched, and though Rider didn't say anything, she sensed that he probably felt the same way.

_This kid's…really annoying._

"I haven't introduced myself, though," Caster remarked. Putting a right hand to her (nonexistent) left breast, she bowed slightly as she did to Irisviel.

"I am Solomon the Great of the tribe of Judah, son of David, King of Judah and all Israel, King of Kings, currently serving as Servant Caster."

A flash of recognition flitted across Saber and Irisviel's face. Saber's face showed more disbelief than surprise, as if she could not believe this irritating child was King Solomon. Waver sympathized completely.

Rider, however, seemed nonplussed. Waver kept it in mind—being an oriental, the odds were that he wouldn't have known much about a figure from Abrahamic Mythology. But it might help identify him later.

"Well met, Caster," Rider replied, "I am Guan Yu, styled Yunchang, the Lord Hanshou and General of the Vanguard of the King of Hanzhong of the Han, serving as servant Rider."

"And I King Arturia Pendragon, King of the Britons and all Britannia, and currently Servant Saber."

_Well that was easy,_ Waver thought to himself.

"A Warrior King, huh," Caster remarked. "Throwing rocks at tall people's heads does tend to be the stuff of legends, I suppose[8]. Impressive, though, that this war has two kings…"

"Only One."

Waver squinted against the dazzling flash of gold that accompanied the proud, ringing voice.

The golden armor; the countless swords, spears and alien weapons that hovered behind him, and an omnipresent expression of haughty distaste—this man standing atop one of the few light poles that had survived Saber and Rider's clash was most certainly the servant Waver had witnessed the night before.

Caster smiled. "Pardon, Servant Archer…?"

"I said that there is only one King here, and two pretenders," Archer said, his brow creased on a face that appeared specifically built to accommodate it.

"And that king's name is…?"

Waver said—rather, could say nothing. He could hardly blame his servant for saying what everybody had been thinking—but something about this man felt huge, looming far larger than his impractical shoulder pauldrons. Waver couldn't quite place what it was, but something in his gut told him this was not a man who should be angered.

Archer's expression of distaste deepened. "You would demand that a King tell his name?"

"I assume your subjects did not simply refer to you as 'King,'" Caster replied before Waver could futilely caution him.

Waver took a quick look at Irisviel and Saber, both of whom looked nonplussed; Rider looked a little forlorn, left behind in this meeting of (apparently) "Kings". He was took a glance at Archer's face and decided he regretted it.

"He's mad, isn't he?" Caster murmured quietly to Waver.

Waver wondered whether it was Archer's scowl or the weapons humming ominously behind him that gave it away.

"What, did I say something wrong—"

The metallic hum of steel slicing through air and the shiver travelling down Waver's spine had barely registered before he was flying, a dust cloud blooming behind him in slow motion. He had not managed to gather the breath to scream before it was (in retrospect rather gently) knocked out of him again by a giant scaled claw. He looked up just in time to see the veiled girl from earlier, her eyes fixed on the smoke.

A glint of amusement flashed across Archer's face. "I forgot dogs came in packs."

"Not much of a King if you don't have any subjects," Caster's voice rang through the dustcloud. Though it sounded as bratty as ever, Waver felt more relieved than ever to hear his servant's voice.

_He's the very basis of modern magecraft_, Waver reassured himself, _did you really think he would die that easy_? Raised within a culture proud of its inherent superiority, Waver could think of little that could match the man that all of modern magecraft hoped to emulate.

But as the dust settled it became clear just how dangerous those assumptions were. A thick, dark man whom Waver vaguely recognized from the night before stood in front of Caster. Dressed in luxurious robes and holding a round shield that gleamed golden in the night as if under the Levantine summer sun, he looked quite the sight. Yet all eyes were fixed not on the man's gold-spun robes or his magnificent shield, but on the sword that passed through said golden shield into the man's chest.

It was certainly not lack of skill that had doomed the fellow—two other weapons, what looked like a sickle and a trident were embedded in the shield, and two others were embedded into the ground from where they had glanced off. The man's expression of shock, echoed on Saber and Rider's faces, made it obvious that the shield should not have broken.

But it had, and with a sigh of wind the man burst into what seemed like white ash, his mouth still babbling soundlessly before it, too, was blown away into the wind. _A djinn_, Waver recognized, a trace of his long days in the Clock Tower library forcing its way through the metallic taste of fear. Though they were well-known even to nonmagus, their habitat in the Middle East and professor El-Melloi's personal distaste for them had prevented him from ever seeing one in person.

It had not left a very good first impression.

"You're a subject short," Archer smirked, chuckling at his own joke.

Caster shrugged, seemingly unperturbed.

"One subject doesn't make a kingdom. But where is your kingdom, o nameless king, that we may give you a name?"

Archer said nothing, his smile widening as he spread his hands, as if to embrace someone or something.

Saber, too, looked a little perplexed. As if amused by their confusion, Archer roared with laughter, the roaring laughter of a lion overlooking his lands.

"And you claim to be kings? You, who would have your so-called kingdoms, your little fiefdoms, bound by the words of beast, man or god? Laughable.

But I will show you all what Kingdom truly is."

Those golden-gloved hands spread out further, daring—no, not daring, not willing, but knowing he could grasp the world between them.

"Everything.

All of it. That is my kingdom. That is A Kingdom, the Kingdom of the King of Heroes.

Every blade of grass, every stone, all your treasures, every one of your silly huts and fiefdoms and hovels, everything under the Sun, Moon and Stars—I have conquered, taken, pacified it all, and it is all mine."

Waver recoiled as Archer gesticulated, a majestic sweep of his arm, like an ant before the foot that hovers above it. How did those men who designed this war think they could impose their wills on a god? How did HE think he could impose his will on a god-king?

"Woo! Wooooooooooooo—we've got a terminal case of egomania here, boys—"

With a lurch of his stomach, Waver realized with increasing horror that that insolence, that blasphemy against his king had come from the mouth of his servant.

How could he utter such depravity in front of his god-king? As if he had any right.

But Waver could put a stop to that. He could shut up this blasphemer that was (he was ashamed to call) his Servant. With just a single piece of those three blood-red marks etched across his hand.

Closing his eyes, he opened his mout—

Something splashed across his face—a gust of wind? A mighty wave? Something in between.

_Who the hell—_and then Waver froze as he looked at his hand.

_What the hell was I about to do?_

And then, as those unknown syllables that felt like the rain and smelled like the wind filled his ears, he realized what he had almost done. Everything rushed back—that moment of complete, unstoppable rage, holding the scraps of his thesis; that fierce, defiant joy of the command seal on his hand—the annoyance he had felt with Caster that first night—the fight they would enter—and he had almost thrown it all away in a single moment of—what? Insanity? Madness?

As the last few notes of divine speech tapered off, Caster smiled. All around them, Rider, Saber and Irisviel all looked dazed, as if they had just been slapped across the cheek.

"So that is the Charisma of a man thoroughly assured of himself," Caster remarked. "Madness never tasted so sweet. But we do not plan on partaking today, King of Heroes."

Archer shrugged as well, seemingly unperturbed.

"I did not expect the cony to understand the thoughts of the lion."

"But let me remind you of something, Solomon, 'King' of Israel," Archer said, his eyes narrowing as he raised his hand.

"The land on which your Israel and Judah was built, the mud huts you lived in as you called yourself king, the mountains whose streams fed your pack of dogs, they are mine. The land you stand on, it is my land. You'd do well to remember it.

And it is by my forbearance that you have lived on my land.

Forbearance that has run out."

With a hum, a new set of weapons lanced out—but this time, it seemed, Caster was ready.

"—∎∎∎∎∎∎∎—"

With a blaze of blue light and dust, the two magic circles hovering in the air on each side of Caster's shoulders ignited, and from it two grey—worms shot out, right in the path of the first few rays of light.

There was no flash of light, no visual sign—just a shriek of wind. And then a blast of wind, this time towards where the swords had been, and a sigh, as the worms wriggled through the air, intercepting the weapons before rushing towards Archer with a shriek.

"Insolent Mongrel—"

Archer flipped off his light-pole with a snarl as several more weapons from his seemingly endless collection shot out, curving as their trajectories converged on the giant worms as they slammed into the lightpole where he had been standing, seemingly oblivious of the weapons buried in their bodies.

Once again, Saber and Rider stared in silence, Saber moving to cover her master as, with a distinctly slimy sound, the worms retracted to show their featureless faces, a ring of eyes around a mouth surrounded by teeth.

With a crash of glass, the lamp portion of the lamp pole shattered on the shattered concrete, its stem nowhere to be seen.

"Shamir," Caster explained carelessly as she stroked one of the worms as like a favorite family pet, "eats right through most alloys. Great for construction."

Running her hand delicately over the worm's leathery skin, she fastened her hand around what looked like some kind of shortened polearm extending from the _Shamir_'s flesh, leaving drops of black blood.

"Blind as a bat, though," she muttered absentmindedly as she lightly tapped the polearm. The worm reacted instantly with a shriek of what must have been pain, its head immediately recoiling towards the polearm.

The Polearm shrieked too, a shriek of wind that had just barely passed Waver before it recoiled, pulling the shriek back into the weapon before it dissolved into a haze of smoke. Waver could thought he saw Rider and Saber quickly double-check their weapons before he was blinded by Caster's Succubus' niqab.

"not much use now, is it," Caster murmured as he picked up the shaft of the weapon, now terminating in a clean cut—

"—ongrel."

Caster cocked his head as Archer strode forward, the golden perfection of his face marred by an expression—not even of disgust, like that Waver had seen through his familiar at the Tohsaka Mansion—but of rage.

"Excuse me?"

"Know your place, Mongrel. Living on my land without acknowledging your lord is already insolence punishable by death," Archer declared, each word a curse as he stepped forwards.

"But you would then sully your king's treasures with those—worms?" In some tiny corner of his mind, a snider Waver Velvet from a more naïve time noted Archer's pause as he tried to find a word appropriate for the (Admittedly very wormy) _Shamir_. The rest of Waver couldn't bring himself to laugh as more and more swords, axes, spears, shields and _ji_ arrayed themselves, like a flock of eagles ready to strike.

Even Caster's smile had lost its good humor, leaving only the fossil of a grin.

"You may want to step back, Waver," she murmured, the ground beneath her glowing with a subterranean rumble. Even with his low-class, rudimentary magic circuits, Waver could feel the crackle in the air, the inaudible howl of mana concentrating, congealing, hardening around Caster and her magic circle.

"Unforgiveable," Archer roared as, with a sweep of his hands, seventy, eight—no, over a hundred of his noble phantasms launched—

The flash was even visible from the Tohsaka Mansion.

With a whistle like a firework, light turned to day as a new sun shone across the bay.

* * *

><p>With a soft clink, Tohsaka Tokiomi's teacup fell onto the carpet as he stood up.<p>

"Don't tell me—"_Was I too late?_

Tokiomi cursed his own indecision. Kirei had specially come over to warn him of Archer's belligerence—the haughty servant was preparing to unveil the contents of his Gate of Babylon to every servant and master in Fuyuki. But Tokiomi has hesitated to invoke one of his three precious command seals to recall the haughty servant. And now it was too late—

"illumination shell," Kotomine Kirei said, his voice flat.

"Illumin—pardon?"

"Illumination Shell, a special type of ordinance used by conventional militaries to light up the battlefield in night battles," Kirei explained patiently.

Tokiomi felt a flood of relief. So it was just some military thing after all, not Archer being pushed too far…_wait, military_?

* * *

><p>"Guards, ready."<p>

"G Troop, in position."

"Hussars, ready on your mark."

"We're ready to begin the operation, milord."

"Thank you, Commander," V.V. responded airily to the man next to him. Though he tried to hide it, V.V. could sense the irritation in Commander….whatever his name was.

V.V. could see where he was coming from, the commander of a unit ready to take Tokyo, now diverted to a minor port town of no strategic or political importance on the whims and fancy of what looked like a child. V.V. could see where this man, standing next to him on the stealth hovercraft _Widowmaker_, was coming from, but he didn't sympathize—after all, he had never felt anything like it himself.

"Very well, Commander, begin the operation."

* * *

><p>For what had been a relatively sleepy town, Fuyuki woke up in a flash. Floodlights blinked on, their beams reaching into the darkness beyond the docks.<p>

From the business district, the rhythmic rat-tat-tat of machine guns and the sound of shouting echoed onto the docks.

"Insolence," Archer muttered as a second star shell rose, bursting into several smaller flares that illuminated his displeasure.

Saber and Irisviel exchanged nods.

"King of Heroes, King of Kings, Lord Guan," Saber began, her voice measured, "Let us leave this fight for another day."

"I agree," Rider immediately said. "The situation has changed. Of the thirty six stratagems, retreat is the greatest."

"It seems like we don't have much of a choice here," Caster replied. Though his expression had returned to that of nonchalance, Saber felt a hint of gratitude from the child.

Archer, however, remained unconvinced. "You would have Lions stop for the squabbling of rats?"

"The regulations of this war—"

"Regulations? Laws?" Archer sneered to Saber's objection. "What King binds himself to a law set for lesser men?" With the raising of his hands, several of his noble phantasms arose, their blades pointing towards the ships illuminated on the Horizon. "It will only take a moment…"

Archer's voice slowly trailed off, his eyes narrowing.

For a moment he turned away, his anger seemed to intensify further, his brow digging deep furrows, and Saber's hand strayed once more towards the invisible sword at her side—but, suddenly, he relaxed.

"tch," he spat. "As you wish, Tokiomi. I will humor you today, and twice more," he muttered to himself. "But do not think you can hold me back with your words."

Turning back to the assembled servants and masters, Archer's smile seemed almost indulgent as he spread his hands.

"Very well, mongrels. I will accept your truce."

Saber nodded curtly. "My thanks, to you, King of Heroes, for your chivalrous actions."

"Chivalry, huh…" For a moment, Archer paused, the corner of his lips curling ever so slightly upwards in amusement.

"Perhaps there is something in this war that will amuse me after all. I look forwards to meeting you in battle, King of Knights."

And with that he was gone.

* * *

><p>With a sigh of relief, Saber turned towards the other two servants.<p>

"Thank you for your cooperation—Rider, Caster."

"And to you, Servant Saber," Rider responded, his expression as peacefully solemn as ever. "It would be inadvisable to continue this battle without consulting my master, given the current situation."

"That Archer…he will be a handful," Caster remarked, annoying smile back in full force. "Well, that's for another time." With a clap, Caster turned to the veiled woman holding what Saber assumed to be Caster's master.

"Leila, Waver, let's go."

Caster's master blinked and stared for a moment before scrambling off the veiled woman's arms, his face nearly glowing.

"My thanks again for brokering this ceasefire, Saber and Rider." Caster said, rather obnoxiously loudly.

"It was in all of our interests," Saber replied, perplexed. Caster, though, didn't seemed to have noticed, seemingly staring into the sky.

"It would be a shame if somebody broke it."

Rider, too, looked a little confused. "…Is something the matter, Caster?"

Caster smiled back as if that odd segue had not happened. "Nothing at all. And now I take my leave."

* * *

><p>As servant Caster sauntered off into the darkness, his "master" at his heels, Emiya Kiritsugu bit his lip.<p>

"…he saw us."

"Yes. Yes he did," Kiritsugu replied to Maiya through the radio.

The last remnants of adrenaline dissipated from his veins—but the shock remained, from when that boy servant had looked at him, straight through the scope of his rifle. He had even winked just to be sure Kiritsugu noticed as he prepared to shoot Caster's hapless master.

"Let's go," he said into the radio as he folded the stock on the rifle, his hands sticky with sweat.

He would have to be far, far more cautious in the future.

* * *

><p>"Captain, hostiles disembarking from Helicopters at the harbor!"<p>

"Enemy Mech Frames sighted near the Town Hall!"

"I want extra sandbags on the bridge," Captain Kazama Shirasaka yelled frantically, to nobody in particular.

The better plan would have been to blow the Fuyuki Bridge altogether, along with any other bridges that might cross the Mion. But nobody had thought to set up charges on the bridge, or checkpoints on the Fuyuki Bridge, or much of anything at all. Nobody had thought it'd be necessary.

"Lieutenant Mitabi, take over for me for a minute," Shirasaka shouted to his XO.

"Sir, what are we supposed to do—"

"Does it look like I have a clue?!" Shirasaka snapped before stomping out of the classroom-cum-command center.

Several soldiers in the hallways of Homurahara Middle School saluted as he passed, but Captain Shirasaka paid them no heed as he stamped up the stairs.

In his high school days, whenever anything went wrong, whenever he wanted to run away, the roof had always been his refuge.

Somewhere in his heart was the forlorn hope that it would serve again.

A wall of cold air slammed into his face as he threw the roof door open and he stepped onto the roof.

A few shaking, abortive efforts later, he carefully lowered the cigarette into the flickering lighter flame, a tiny kernel of warmth protected within his cupped hands.

With a deep breath, he felt the panic in him subside somewhat.

"Shit," he muttered.

And it was shit. What had he done wrong to get himself in such a shitty situation?

Well, everything. Life had started easy, as it tended to be for the talented. He had cruised through high school here through talent and a few hidden cheat sheets hidden in his uniform.

And he had hoped to cruise through University too, until reality had taken its toll and he found himself four years later with a degree full of compromises and not a single company willing to hire him for it.

He'd tried out the salaryman life for a while, but it didn't quite appeal to him, and in the course of things he'd sunk his salary (and quite a bit more) on a few business ventures that either never quite succeeded or were never meant by his business "partners" to succeed.

And finally, he had ran away from his problems and joined the military, content in the fact that his degree would guarantee him an officer position and his lack of dedication would earn him a dead-end position in some dead-end town where he wouldn't have a chance of mucking things up.

But it seemed like problems were dedicated to finding him, even in a dead-end town such as Fuyuki.

_Why Fuyuki?_ He wondered.

The town was pretty and its people pleasant, given, but the town of Fuyuki held no strategic value whatsoever. It had once been a Sakuradite-exporting port, but that had long since withered once better-situated harbors with larger facilities had been constructed; its coastline was thin and poorly suited for large-scale disembarkment; though Mount Enzou might be easily fortified, its terrain was far too rocky for either airfields or all but the toughest ground vehicles; and though a Highway from Hiroshima to Tokyo passed through Fuyuki and its bridge, the road was narrow, poorly maintained and easy to block or defend.

No matter how you looked at it, the Britannians could find better roads, safer harbors and more indefensible crossings and the JSDF could find stronger chokepoints and better defenses elsewhere.

That was why Shirasaki and his company of screw-ups had been assigned to Fuyuki with no ordinance heavier than the company Komatsu IFV.

So why were the Britannians here?

And now that they were here, what would Shirasaka and his men do?

Shinto had already been lost—the Britannians had already seized the old harbor and taken the town hall—Shirasaka had gotten no word from Corporal Kei, his men or the IFV. Miyama, though, could still be saved. Shirasaka had ordered a roadblock to be set up on the Fuyuki bridge and the coastline beaches fortified—but that was only a stopgap measure. The Britannians had shown they could land by air, and if they made a concerted effort, Shirasaka lacked the anti-air assets to deal with it. Moreover, Fuyuki bridge was far from the only bridge across the Mion—the next bridge lay merely a few miles upstream, and as far as he knew there was no garrison there. Moreover, his mere company-sized unit lacked either the resources to properly evacuate Fuyuki's citizens.

What COULD Shirasaka do?

"Captain, regarding—"

"How the hell should I know?! What the hell am I supposed to do—" Shirasaka stopped as he turned to Lieutenant Mitabi's confused face.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. That was uncalled for," Shirasaka stammered.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear it, sir." Shirasaka felt a sigh of relief—his lieutenant was not one given to undue gossip, and his advice was generally sensible. Perhaps he had some words of advice for this situation.

"Lieutenant. I'm sure you're aware of our odds, or lack thereof, in this situation."

"I am."

"Well," Shirasaka replied as he turned, "what would you do in this situation—"

Captain Kazama Shirasaka's face registered annoyance, confusion, and then a slow realization as it looked down at the hand embedded in his chest, and the stain of numbness that was spreading across his uniform.

Slowly, his eyes moved back up toward his lieutenant's face, hesitating as if he feared what he would see would scare him more than the hand gripping his heart.

And, when he finally gained the courage to look up, all he saw was a white skull, its eye sockets narrowed in a jawless smile.

* * *

><p>For all its obscurity, Fuyuki was a rather large city—the distant sounds of gunfire were barely audible over the sound of loudspeakers and general panic in Miyama.<p>

Guan Tziling, however, could only feel relief as she gingerly slid down through the thickets that stood as the outskirts of Fuyuki City. The searchlights illuminating the sky almost seemed like a welcome party—Tziling had been in the mountains for three days, and just about any human habitation was a welcome change to cold nights with nothing but wildlife, a sleeping bag and granola bars for company.

With a slight grunt, she shifted the long wrapped package from one shoulder to another.

The edge of Fuyuki had only been touched lightly by urbanization—only a few cars among homes and small farms that could have been from the P—well, First Pacific War. The contrast between the farmland around her and the high-rises in the distance reminded Tziling of her own country.

The Federation had sought industrialization in a hurry, and the warlords who maintained de facto control over China outside of the Eunuch's immediate capitol region had different ideas of how to go about doing it. In the end, they each followed their own way such that skyscrapers in one province might border slums in another.

Japan, at least, had pursued a more centralized approach about it—not that it was helping them much now.

The streets were largely empty, though an undercurrent of panic hummed ominously from house to house. That was fortunate—the Japanese were a sensitive and polite people, and a heavily-armed foreign national travelling in these turbulent times would probably be better-served to travel incognito, diplomatic passport or not.

Before she knew it, she was in the residential area, with their tall stone walls and polite family name-plates. Now the whispers of worry became murmurs, interspersed with the shouts of distant soldiers and the rumble of vehicles. And underneath that, a hum of…something else.

"Hongzhou Yansuiguan, Taishan," Tziling absentmindedly muttered to herself as she rifled through the map she had printed over at the neighboring town before heading out. There were few Federation expats in Japan outside of its major cities—it was fortunate that a family also from Suzhou just happened to live in Fuyuki. The fact that they owned a restaurant also gave Tziling a bit of spring in her step—granola bars (and the occasional 7-11 bento as a treat) could only satisfy so much.

Chinese food would have to wait, though, judging by the "Excuse me, sir." from behind her.

"Turn around. What are you doing out here after the curfew?"

Three JSDF soldiers let out audible sighs of relief as she turned around into the streetlight.

Tziling smiled the easy smile that usually worked with new concubines in the Vermillion Forbidden City. "Miharu Katsuragi. I'm studying at Seiken, but I took a break a week ago and just got here on the way home," she lied. "Is something wrong, officer?"

One of the soldiers (the officer, by what Tziling could see) smiled a relieved smile in return. "Not as much as I feared. We thought you were a Britannian or something. But you should probably clear out soon."

The officer motioned at the searchlights in the background.

"Seems like this is the real thing," he remarked with a nonchalance a little too airy to be genuine.

"A real invasion?

"Afraid so."

"Just my luck," Tziling sighed. "Well, I guess I'll wait until you officers kick them out then," she suggested. In this situation it wouldn't be easy to get to the Taishan anyway. The Chinese food would have to wait.

"…actually, hold on."

Tziling froze.

"We might need to check out your documents back at headquarters," the officer remarked with a hint of apology.

Tziling smiled as she faced the officer once more. "I'm sure that won't be necessary, right?" Her documents were intact, but Tziling suspected they would not be thrilled to find out about the amount of firepower she had packed.

The officer shook his head. "Afraid not. Orders are orders."

"Well, I guess I wouldn't mind somewhere to stay for the night," Tziling sighed, as if she had not noticed the other two soldiers carefully surrounding her. Their objective was probably the same as hers, at least for now. "Lead on."

"What's the news on the war? I've been out of the loop for a while?" They were walking away from the battle now. Fewer lights could be seen in the surrounding houses, and the subdued mutters of panic subsided back into threatened whispers.

"nothing good," the officer replied, his pessimism a little more obvious. "Word is that the Britannians landed down south on Shikoku, and from what I've heard, the capitol and the North aren't doing so well either." His expression darkened. "Meanwhile the EU is busy pussyfooting over in Greenland as always, and the Chinese leave us to dry."

"About as expected, then," Tziling shrugged. The Leaders of the EU loudly spoke of war, constantly—of wars to defend liberty, equality and fraternity, to uphold democracy and the rights of man. But when it came time to send their men to fight, they all lapsed into silence. Two centuries of democracy in EU had generated a nation that followed the will of the people, with all its fickle contradictions. And so the EU Navy would continue its standoff in Greenland until the threat of battle passed and the politicians picked up the baton once more.

The Federation—or, rather, its eunuch leaders, also had their own problems. The eunuchs were not stupid—with most of China divided among various other governors, warlords and Eunuchs, the Eunuchs would be loath to commit more of the few assets that remained loyal to them into a foreign war with unfavorable odds. With the Beiyang Fleet licking its wounds in Kaohsiung and the Federation's other territorial armies busy in India and Indochina, any further intervention would have to be done with the Eunuch's own Capitol Armies at the cost of the Eunuch's own security forces. And with the specter of Prime Minister Weilin's failed coup still fresh in their minds, the Eunuchs would not jeopardize their personal safety for a few international treaties.

"Says a lot about what friends money will buy you," the JSDF officer muttered grimly as he turned a corner—into an empty dead-end. "Well, this seems like a good place."

"I agree," Tziling replied, as if she had not heard the sounds of two safeties being flicked off, "this is perfect."

With a crack, one of the JSDF soldiers crumpled, his neck bent in an angle that he would never again have to worry about fixing. The second JSDF soldier managed to raise his rifle before he impacted the wall with a crunch of gravel and breaking bones.

The officer fared a little better, flitting in and out of Tziling's punches before a swing from the wrapped polearm swept him off his feet with a force that should have snapped his legs.

"Servant Assassin, I assume?"

"How," hissed the skull-masked man with what breath he could draw as soon as he regained his breath, a one-word question that conveyed a combination of shock, horror and disbelief, a boot on his chest and thin steel blade mere centimeters from his face.

"I've met a great many people who can resist hypnosis," Tziling remarked grimly as she pulled off what remained of the pouch that had hidden her Guan Dao away, "but none unaffected by it."

With a wheeze, Assassin drew in a breath of air through his chest as Tziling shifted her boot slightly.

"Who was it that sent you?"

Assassin said nothing, his skull mask smiling jawlessly back at her.

"I heard a servant has the chance to find a new master if their master is killed. How about we work something out?"

A moment of silence—but just as Tziling raised her polearm, something escaped from underneath the mask.

"—p—m—."

Tziling leaned in a little closer. "What?"

With a soft crunch, a crack crept along the edge of the skull mask.

"—elp me."

With a hiss like flash-boiling water, the cracked corner melted away, what had seemed like white ceramic melting into liquid and revealing an eye filled with fear—terror, really.

_A normal human?_ The face was that of the JSDF soldier from earlier. But the agility with which the officer had managed to dodge her attack, that mask, that immunity to magecraft…though she had never faced the JSDF, Guan Tziling suspected these abilities were not standard among the Japanese military.

"H-help me," the soldier behind the mask rasped.

And yet that eye full of fear, peering from outside of the mask, could not have been faked. It seemed like Assassin's ability was some kind of involuntary possession—but to what extent, and could it be remediated?

"How can I help you?" Tziling asked.

"—save me, in my che—" A pained whisper.

"Louder," Tziling urged gently, moving her head closer.

"—ou can start by—"

"I can start by what?"

A click, a jetstream of cold air that travelled straight down Tziling's spine—

"—you can start by dying!" Somehow, without being able to see underneath that skull mask, Guan Tziling suspected that, underneath that white porcelain smile was a real smile as the soldier aimed his handgun and pulled the trigger—

Or, rather, that was what he would have done if he still had his hand.

With an expression of innocent, childlike confusion, his eyes swung back and forth from the stump of his arm and the severed hand that lay next to it, fingers still tightly clasped around the pistol grip. It took a few more precious seconds for him to notice that neither his neck nor the rest of his body had quite followed his head in falling to the ground.

"Figured it wouldn't be that easy," Guan Tziling muttered.

"Now, about the other," she muttered as she turned towards the empty street.

* * *

><p>Servant Assassin, formerly JSDF Private Miyashita Shouma, cursed his luck.<p>

The idea was to observe the master, as Assassin's Master had ordered. It was his misfortune to be stuck with two more enthusiastic partners.

In the end, the allure of a master whose servant was elsewhere had gotten the better of them.

And now their cover was blown, and here he was running for his life. If the other masters got wind of this, the farce his master had put on in front of Archer would be for naught.

Though the loss of a Single Assassin (that wasn't him) didn't trouble him much, Assassin knew enough to know that his Master would be in hot water.

But not all was lost. Foolhardy as their attacks were, his colleagues (and his own broken ribs) were proof of one new piece of information his master would be well-served to know.

Servants, inherently, are an existence that stands apart from the physical world, an aberration both separate from and abhorrent to the physical world. It is this separation that causes the world to constantly press upon these foreign existences, and it is the natural attempts by the physical world to evict these foreign entities that necessitates sixty year's worth of prana for a mere two and a half weeks of existence on this earth.

And yet, this inherent separation from the laws of the physical world provides a measure of protection from the weapons and magecraft of the physical world. However powerful, human weaponry and magecraft has a severely diminished effect on separate existences such as servants. Only magus with knowledge of magecraft of the higher-orders or weapons of great magical power can hope to inflict any real damage against Servants.

And this master possessed at least one of these. Whether it was the ability of the master or the power of the weapon (Assassin suspected the latter), the fact remained that this master could kill servants.

No matter how badly his master might castigate him, Assassin knew this information would be priceless.

He only needed to get back—

_Huh?_ Assassin blinked at the stars above him.

He must have tripped—what a silly mistake to make.

He had to get up. Time was of the essence, after all.

But something was not right. Something had happened to his feet. Something was missing. What was it?

Assassin was still wondering as the Halberd swung down onto his head.

* * *

><p>"thick as thieves," Servant Rider said as he tossed the body of the JSDF soldier unceremoniously into the corner along with the other bodies.<p>

"No signs of possession until the moments they fire, masks that disappear as soon as they die…" Guan Tziling remarked contemplatively as she picked up the JSDF officer's arm and tossed it into the pile. The abandoned corner Assassin had chosen to be her execution ground was now a very convenient graveyard. "As expected of Assassins."

"My apologies for arriving late, milady," Rider murmured.

"I did not blame you. How did the battle go?"

Rider smiled. "They are all great heroes, as expected. Really, though."

Tziling turned at Rider's chuckle as, wiping blood off her own Guan Dao, she tied a new burlap bag around the blade. "Is something funny?"

"To think the greatest man among them is a girl…these are interesting times."

* * *

><p>"Attention citizens and civilians within Fuyuki City, this is a message from the JGSDF 15th Infantry Division, 3rd Company. Please keep calm and remain in your homes until further instructions are given."<p>

Corporal Takebe realized the hypocrisy of somebody in his current state advocating calm. It was only military discipline that kept his shaking fingers from instinctively jabbing into the trigger of his rifle at every sudden sound.

"This alley's clear, sir," Private Misaya reported.

"Right, private, move on," Takebe replied, his voice betraying nothing. The men in his squad were probably just as nervous as he was—to lose his nerve now would only worsen things.

But his thoughts were his own and nobody else's, and there his worries remained pent up.

Currently most of the 15th infantry division was currently on the riverbank, busy fortifying the fuyuki bridge and the banks of the Mion.

On the other side, the Britannian were in complete control.

Reports from soldiers that had made it across from the bridge were that they had seen those giant bipedal combat Frames that had devastated the 3rd Company's original unit, Major-General Kirigaya's 16th Brigade and its fortifications in Shikoku.

The 16th had failed, even with all the fancy German MBTs they had purchased. Takebe did not feel like testing whether _élan vital_ would compensate for nearly a full meter's equivalent of RHA in composite armor and a 120mm gun.

Thankfully, his duty would not involve finding out—at least not yet. Currently he and his squad's job was to ensure Fuyuki's citizens remained in their homes until the situation had stabilized—and to make sure no Britannian soldiers had managed to land on the Miyama side.

Takebe wasn't going to look too ahrd for the latter.

"Sir, over there," his partner whispered to him.

Takebe felt his blood run cold. He flicked the safety of his rifle to semi-auto as he sidled up to the Private.

Almost instantly, he felt a release in tension as he looked down the private's arm. The figure was sprawled on its ground on its side—unlikely to be somebody shooting at you, at any rate. He—no, she, wasn't wearing a uniform either.

It would be against international law to fight without a uniform—and Britannia wouldn't break international law, right?

That trace of doubt was enough that he kept his rifle at the ready as he tiptoed over, ready to shoot at a moment's notice as he motioned to the Private to follow him into the alley.

—_in th—_

Takebe stiffened. He had only heard it for a second—but that whisper sounded like a shout in his head—and not a friendly one. "Ma'am?" he inquired cautiously as he inched forwards, rifle at the ready. From Misaya's expression, he had heard the whisper as well.

—_urts—ease—_

Another whisper—this time not hostile, but afraid—deathly afraid. Reaching over, turned the woman over, revealing a foreign-looking woman—

—_ightthroughtheskinIwonderhowfaritcang—_

Not a whisper this time. This time it was a full-blown sentence, whispered but at the same time as loud as if amplified through a loudspeaker. It was a curious voice, nearly childlike—but a little off, in a way Takebe couldn't explain with words.

And yet, through that whole sentence, the unconscious woman he had turned over hadn't moved an inch.

"…I don't like this, sir," Misaya murmured, his voice agitated, "there's someone—something out there."

"Quiet. Cover me, Private, I'll get this lady up, and we'll get the hell out of here."

"Got it," the Private responded as he raised his own rifle. Turning back, Takebe reached out to pick the woman up—and then froze as he found himself looking into the eyes of the downed woman.

And those eyes glowed bright purple, with the sigil of a widened μ—

_All five fingers, huh?_

"Pardon, ma'am…" Takebe blinked mid-response. The randomness of the comment was already strange. But what was stranger, and what scared Takebe more, was the fact that the woman's mouth had moved not an inch.

_You could do without one, right? Just a quick cut…_the voice had changed—not that of a woman, but of a man's, speaking a language Takebe didn't know but could understand—and then a burning, searing pain as the knife cleaved through fingers that weren't his—he was on a pedestal on what looked like ruins, floating in an endless evening sky—and then, separately and yet simultaneously he was shrugging the cloak from his shoulders, drenched in rain and rage and, most of all, an agonizing, painful guilt, surrounded by corpses of his former friends, a woman he loved and couldn't love in his arms; powerless, scrabbling at the ground at the feet of the golden-haired boy who had taken everything h—she had. He—she—he wasn't sure which one it was anymore all he knew was that he was burning, the flesh curling and curdling as they peeled off his arms, surrounded by a gleeful crowd whose faces showed only savage triumph—cast awash in a thousand emotions, sensations, visions, voices and feelings, Corporal Takebe struggled only momentarily before, drowning in a sea of memories, his mind finally sank under the surface into the depths.

Scrabbling hands and a shaking needle searched blindly for a blood vessel. Once, twice, thrice, the needle jabbed before finding a mark and quivering fingers depressed the syringe plunger and sent several milligrams of dissolved relief rushing through the woman's veins. As sanity returned (however momentarily), the geass marks receded, leaving an eye of clear green on one side and a clouded, milky white one on the other. Only the green one moved as it passed over the two twitching, unconscious JSDF soldiers around her.

"Jeepers," the woman who had once been known as L.L. (among other things) murmured, "how long was I out, Berserker?"

Nobody said anything, but that hardly fazed L.L. as she crawled to her feet.

"Don't worry about it. We'll have another chance."

Stumbling, L.L. steadied herself on a street corner, gazing at the mouth of the mion, and the Britannian ships now illuminated by floodlights.

"They're coming, after all. Just as Zouken said."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>

* * *

><p>[1]Palfreys and Destriers: The average knight in the medieval period had several horses—a charger, a heavy horse bred for bearing the weight of an armored rider and its own armor, rouncey for basic transport, and a few sumpter horses for carrying all the paraphernalia associated with a knight. The best chargers were Destriers, generally stallions with a lot of power, though horses with better endurance such as the Courser were used. Palfreys were just as valuable as Chargers, but were more known for their gentleness. Of course, the historical knights did not exist during the time most people believe the historical King Arthur might have lived, but Nasu is Nasu.<p>

[2] The Noble Man and the Smaller Man: this is a paraphrase of Confucius. The Noble Man is a rather literal translation of (君子), but other words could be "the bigger man", "the ideal man," etc. The "Smaller Man" (once again a very literal translation from 小人), could also be referred to as a despicable man, a lesser man, etc.

[3] Honorifics: The Lord Hanshou rank was given while Guan Yu was in service of Cao Cao by the Emperor. As it was given by the Emperor Qian of the Han, I supposed he would have kept it. General of the Vanguard was given after Liu Bei's ascension to the rank of the King of Hanzhong. Shu is not mentioned but the Han is because Liu Bei considered himself subordinate to the Emperor and a continuation of the Han dynasty, not a separate dynasty, and he did not proclaim himself emperor (following the abdication of Emperor Qian) until after Guan Yu's death. Guan Yu's status as a Tiger General was also not noted, as he in fact took offense when given the title, as he considered two of the members (Huang Zhong and Ma Chao) undeserving of the rank and needed to be convinced to accept the title.

[4] the Weight of Halberds: most long weapons were rather lighter than one would imagine (2-3 kg) in order to be used with as much agility as a sword. Even the 1.4m Zweihanders (probably longer than the hand-and-a-half sword that Excalibur probably was), used by the Landsknecht in the late renaissance, weighed about 2kg. In comparison, by the units of the Han (the jin– "斤"), the Green Dragon Crescent Blade weighed about 18 kilograms—at least six times the weight of the contemporary halberds of high-renaissance halberdiers.

[5] Guan Yu's Attack – drawn from the Romance, from which this Guan Yu is largely based (not to be confused with the Historical one). While the deaths of Yuan Shao's two greatest generals, Yan Liang and Wen Chou, are considered one of Guan Yu's greatest achievements, Yan Liang, who was serving with Liu Bei at the time, had expected Guan Yu to be defecting, and was cut down before he knew what was happening (as Guan Yu's spirit was reminded by a priest after his death, as told by the Romance of the Three Kingdoms). The battle between Hua Xiong and Guan Yu (who at the time held the mere rank of mounted Archer) is not explicitly stated either. Li Ru, Dong Zhuo's main adviser, also noted Hua Xiong as being Dong Zhuo's "greatest general", above even the peerless Lu Bu, suggesting he may have underestimated his enemy.

[6] Killing Intent – Of course, I'm not indicating that warriors were able to detect the "intention to kill" (a very vague term to begin with) with some "sixth sense" or psychic abilities. At the same time, that the term "殺氣" and others were devised in the first place suggests the phenomenon exists in some form. Though I have yet to engage in a fight with anybody to the death, I assume killing intent is a mix of subconscious physical cues of somebody about to engage in violent action, i.e. dilation of pupils, accelerated heartbeat, changes in stance, all of which somebody who has seen tens of battles may be able to recognize by experience.

[7] Approver – an accomplice to the accused or a random prisoner chosen to act as the champion of an accused in trial by combat in medieval England.

[8] The Story of David and Goliath for anybody who actually hasn't heard of it.

* * *

><p><strong>Side info<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Spirit<strong>: Guan Yu Yunchang

**Master**: Guan Tziling (in retrospect I wrote this wrong-Guan Tziling is written with the Wades-Giles system while the rest of the characters are written in Pinyin. Guan Tziling should technically be Guan Zhiling)

**Alignment**: Lawful Good

Strength: A

Mana: D

Endurance: B

Luck: C++

Agility: B

N. Phantasm: B+

**Class skills**:

Riding C+++ (far above-average but unexceptional for a hero. In certain situations may manifest at a much higher level)

Personal skills:

-Eye of the Mind (False): A

-Knowledge of Respect and Harmony: B (a serene state of mind brought about by complete understanding of oneself. With this rank, Rider's attacks are difficult to perceive until they are enacted. Less effective against servants with a high Instinct. Gives some measure of presence concealment)

-Divinity: D+++ (While completely mortal in his lifetime, postmortem Rider became a well-known Taoist-buddhist deity well known throughout the Far East. This does not, however, reflect on his servant stats under normal conditions).


End file.
